Stolen
by GoforthAndConquer
Summary: He had fallen from the skies. She had fallen from a throne. Their lives were forever changed by a simple request. Steal me. Balthier x Ashe.
1. I

_Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They all belong to people far richer than I am._

_A/N: This is my first work here! I hope you enjoy. As a small note, I do play a little bit with the game's timeline to fit my conception of the story. Nothing major, but I do want to keep you informed. Enjoy!_

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Balthier sighed, shaking his head as he wandered behind the annoying snap of a boy that guided them through the waterway. Of course it wouldn't be easy. Of all the rotten luck, he had chosen this night to steal the magicite, when the entire Resistance and the Archadian forces occupying Rabanastre decided to duke it out on the city streets. No, the gods were definitely not smiling upon him that night.

The clashing of blades distracted him from his thoughts, his gaze flying up the ledge on the far side of the waterway. A group of soldiers had cornered an insurgent, her sword at the ready. From here he couldn't see much; just a flash of silver blonde hair and what he believed was a rose pink skirt. His eyes narrowed, despite being one for a little flamboyance himself, but even that vibrant hue was a little too bright to manage any sort of stealth.

Without warning, Vaan, that was the boy's name, was running to her, begging her to jump. Balthier cursed under his breath, this was not the time for foolish plays at chivalry. For a moment, her face snapped to them, and Balthier was struck by the fierce beauty of her features. However, he had seen his share of beautiful women, and this particular one came with a whole load of trouble. Before he could stop the would-be thief, the insurgent had jumped, landing into Vaan's arms with a strange sort of grace that was a stark contrast with Vaan's awkward catch. Fran and him exchanged looks, both bristling at the increasingly annoying odds stacking against them, and wandered forward. The woman had pushed herself out of Vaan's arms, and Balthier quickly assessed her with a discerning eye. She wasn't beautiful in the ways he was accustomed to seeing it, with feminine lashes and delicate limbs, like the petals of a flower. She was harsh, unforgiving, taking no prisoners, like the icy rage of a snowstorm or the barren expanse of the desert. The woman, barely more than a girl really, was hardened with muscle and toil, her eyes a deep ebon gray that was empty, void of emotion. It was that last thought that made him shiver and want to run away into the skies, he always did when faced with something he couldn't conquer. He shook the feeling away, furious with her, furious with himself for feeling such. There was nothing to be frightened of. Especially not this foul tempered agent of the Resistance with hard eyes and a rose pink skirt.

Taking her with them was an insane act of charity, and Balthier attributed the lapse to Vaan's endless chattering. The boy seemed rather taken with this Amalia, who answered his questions coolly and with no expression. Though he had to give her credit for when they had been ambushed by the pack of Flans. She was rather skilled with a blade, parrying and feinting with the ease of someone well trained in the art of sword play. Her one weakness was her propensity to leave herself open for attack, and she had used more than one potion to compensate for her minimal defense. Vaan had thrown her some potions as well, much to his chagrin. The blasted woman was about to leave the party anyway, no need to waste good supplies on her. But she had accepted the potions with a graceful bow of her head and a sincere, if too polite, thank you, and suddenly Balthier had a sneaking suspicion that there was much more to this Amalia than she let on.

They marched forward, wandering, and of course, Balthier's bad luck continued with the arrival of Firemane, some horse like creature born from a fiery pit. He and Fran stayed back, letting their ranged weapons have a broader field of fire, while Amalia and Vaan methodically sliced the blazing fiend. The beast struck out, lashing at Amalia with untamed rage, and she flew backwards, her back scraping against the stone floor. Balthier turned to her, his hand grabbing a potion before he could think, but she had already leapt to her feet, launching herself at the creature with a battle cry. He stared for a moment, then realized his fingers were clasped around the potion, and he grunted in annoyance, refocusing his attack on Firemane. There was no point using potions on some insurgent wench that didn't know when to quit. She was utterly infuriating and he had barely known her for half an hour.

Amalia struck the final blow to the creature, its dying wail echoing throughout the chamber. The party turned to continue, but the marching of soldiers halted their advance, the barrels of many guns staring them down. Balthier was gritting his teeth, biting back the scathing retort to the woman at his side about her unfailing ability to get them into trouble, when Vayne Solidor himself slithered into view. Even without knowing her for long, Balthier could feel Amalia tense beside him; hear the thoughts screaming in her head for revenge. Just as she was about to step forward, and likewise get them all killed, instinct took over, and his hand shot out, catching her wrist with his fingers. Her breath caught, her eyes glancing to him in question, but there was something else there, a disbelief, as if she had never known human contact. Her skin was soft beneath his, nearly satin, but the rush of her pulse reminded him that he held not just her wrist, but their lives.

"Now is not the time," he warned, his hand tightening in emphasis.

She paused, her focus darting around the room, taking in the soldiers pouring into the chamber. Her features glimmered in resentment, and Balthier had the uncanny feeling that she was stowing away this defeat into herself, as if she had a collection and this was just the newest piece. She sighed, resignation staining her breath, yet her eyes had a determined glint, promising retribution. Though the moment had passed, her attack put on hold for now, he kept his hand enclosed around her wrist, feeling her heartbeat return to normal beneath his palm. Remembering himself, he let go, his fingertips brushing just slightly, and he glared up at the mocking face of Vayne Solidor, ordering the soldiers to restrain them. The cuffs bit tightly into his wrists, and he glanced at Amalia, chin raised in regal defiance, seemingly untouched by their impending imprisonment. And all he had wanted was a piece of magicite.

Oh yes, the gods truly despised him.


	2. II

How dare he!

Ashe couldn't stop her hand anymore than she could stop the world moving. The resounding smack was not nearly as satisfying as she would have liked it to be, and she gritted her teeth to keep from crying out in frustration. Basch's face was solemn, accepting the blow, but he turned back to her with a calmness that she had not expected. Words sprung forth, angry and hot, spilling like oil from her lips.

"You're supposed to be dead," she whispered.

But then again, so was she.

She tried to cling to the anger, but like everything else, it faded into embers, leaving her chest caked in dust. She truly lived up to her name, she supposed, a twist of bitter humor hardening her mouth. All she was, all she felt, was ashes. She was no phoenix reborn; the only thing she knew was ruin, everything she was decaying slowly from the inside out.

They were all here, she noticed, the thieves from before. The boy looked at her imploringly, still innocent even after so much despair. The Viera was here too, Fran, she believed her name was. Though her wrists were bound in restraints, she held herself with a sort of regality that seemed to fit the Viera more than it did Ashe herself. She had to force herself into courtly gestures and royal carriage, years of practice not making it anymore natural than at her first lesson in etiquette. But her blood was royal, and that would have to be enough. And then there was the man, Balthier, smirking as if the whole situation was amusing to him. It probably was, Ashe thought, feigning anger still; the gods were more than likely laughing at her existence this very moment.

"Come now, come now," the judge's voice drifted into her mind, and she forced herself to pay attention, no matter how loathsome he was, "Have you forgotten your manners? This is hardly the courtesy due the late Princess Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca?"

The shocked expressions would have entertained her had she been watching the scene unfold from a place in the audience. Vaan stumbled forward, disbelief spilling over into words. The two pirates gave each other identical looks of surprise, but controlled themselves more readily, anticipating what would come next. The judge droned on, his voice irritatingly metallic, but Ashe could not help but stare into the face of the traitor before her, quipping retorts when the script called for it. She felt far removed from herself, like she were a spectator to the drama playing out before her. Basch continued, speaking of the Dusk Shard that was her birthright, and anger flickered once more in the hollow of her chest, futilely struggling to exist.

"Wait," she interrupted, words heated even if her veins ran sluggish with ice, "You took my father's life, why spare mine now? You would have me live in shame!"

Basch countered, solemn. "If that is your duty: yes."

Her breath came out harsh, and truth settled into the marrow of her bones. What was more shameful, living as a scavenger with no hope for justice, or giving into a tyrant's demands so her people would not have to see war? Was peace worth the price of freedom? Her mind rebelled, peace was worthless in chains, it was just another cage. And yet, so was death. And the dead could never be released, could never relish the freedom that they had sought at the cost of their lives. She could have screamed at the unfairness of it all, if she hadn't learned to expect it.

Vaan's interruption gave her frustration an outlet, and she felt no regret at the stung look on his face. Regret required compassion, and she had used up every ounce long ago.

Then the stone started glowing. And she knew all was lost yet again.

"Don't give it to him," she begged, knowing full well that he would.

Her eyes wandered to the faces of the others, and she silently fumed as Balthier nodded an gesture of approval to Vaan, who promptly gave over the Dusk Shard with a naïve request for mercy. She glared at the pirate, focusing her energy onto something, anything she could lash out to. He merely looked at her, umber eyes fathomless, and he shrugged.

She couldn't decide who was worse, the judge Ghis or the pirate Balthier.

They were being led away, their deaths near certain, and Ashe couldn't bring herself to care. She was supposed to be dead anyway, the world would not mourn her passing. She was already an epic tragedy, the princess who lost everything, and in turn took her own life. As she sat in her cell, she wondered how people believed she died. Was it poison that she used, some vile elixir she had gotten from an apothecary? Or perhaps she had fallen upon her sword, like the warriors of old when they had lost their honor? Maybe she had taken a knife to her wrists during the middle of supper, unable to keep the farce of normality. Her mouth twitched. That one at least had a little bit of irony to make it interesting.

She was so caught up in dramatizing her rumored death that the noise of the door opening startled her, her gasp echoing in the room. Her relief at seeing Vossler, who had remained true at her side through all of this, was outweighed by her despair at seeing the traitor Basch again. Ashe wanted to say something, anything, some fierce monologue cursing him to the bowels of hell for his betrayal.

Her mouth opened, but all that came out was, "You."

The word was vehement, full of venom, but she was unsatisfied. Eager to continue, she sought to put together words, ignoring Vaan's pleas to leave, rolling her eyes at Balthier's impatient demands. But Vossler turned to her, his gaze stoic, his mouth set in disappointment.

"We will talk later," he commanded, broking no argument.

Ashe felt a twinge of shame, knowing a scolding when she heard one. She sighed, feeling her breaths echo in the barren cavern of her lungs. Her duty as a princess was to restore her kingdom, yet she was princess to no one, not without her birthright, not when she needed constant counsel to inform her of the next course of action. But she nodded, dutifully; it was all she could do, all she'd ever done the past two years. No, her whole life had been devoted to her duties, as daughter, as princess, as insurgent. She had so many empty titles, easily discarded for the next. And so she followed Vossler.

The brief outburst outside her cell had been her undoing. Vossler had once again chastised her, still in front of the others, and Ashe couldn't bear it any longer. She felt their eyes behind her, boring into her shoulder blades, she could tell each pair from the next. Vaan's were soft with pity running rampant, and she wanted to gnash her teeth. Fran's was cool, collected, utterly unconcerned with naught but their safety. Then there was Balthier's, heavy and hot, like a brand digging into her skin, and she could feel his disdain burning. Pity from orphans? A pirate's contempt? There was only so much she could take.

So she ran. Only there was nowhere to run to.


	3. III

_A/N: Over 100 visitors! Holy crap! Thanks for tuning in and without further commercial interruption, on with the show!_

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Balthier watched the proceedings with his usual mask of indifference, keeping his thoughts hidden beneath it. Ondore was her uncle? He wasn't exactly surprised, all these kings and dukes and emperors were related in some way or another. Incest was all the rage when it came to royalty.

Now, Amalia the insurgent turning out to be the late Princess Ashelia was something he had not expected. It made a poetic sort of sense of course, if one had a liking for poetry. It explained much, why such a young woman was leader of the Resistance, the regal bearing of her chin, the aristocratic air that she wore around her like a shield. She was a princess on the run, and that didn't exactly lend itself to sweetness and gentility.

He stood apart, watching with a narrowed gaze as the princess tried to win her uncle's aid. It was futile, even a pirate such as he could see that, telling by the tension in the Marquis' cheek, the resigned tone edging into his voice. Yet when he refused it aloud, Balthier shifted uncomfortably as the princess begged one last time, eyes desperate. He couldn't help a twinge of pity as she fell apart in the middle of the council room. She was a princess, yet she was always forced to acquiesce to others demands, her decisions constantly tested against the so called wisdom of her advisors, whether they were knights or uncles or even orphans. Not once had she delivered a command without it being picked apart and eventually tossed aside. He wondered how she could bear it.

Refusing to become maudlin, he decided to openly inquire as to compensation to this journey. After all, he did deliver her safe and sound. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her walk away, shoulders slumped in yet another defeat. The others turned to see her out, but he would not give into such a melodramatic temptation. Besides, he had the strangest feeling that this was not the last he'd seen of the spirited insurgent that had launched herself into their party most literally. And he did desperately need a bath.

Balthier knew she would pull something; the steel glinting in her eyes was a reflection of that endless determination that bordered on obsession. However, he did not expect so bold a move as commandeering the Strahl. He couldn't help the smirk slashed across his face as he lurked in the shadows, watching her perched in his seat, trying to take off. She would make a glorious sky pirate, if she knew how to work the controls that is. Her surprise when he caught her trying to steal his airship made him grin with mischief, playing into it with all the audacity of a rogue. But his humor quickly faded, striding up to her with firm intent.

"I'm leaving you with the Marquis," he ordered, his eyes narrowing at her, daring her to argue. Which, of course, he knew she would. Perhaps that's why he did it in the first place.

She stepped forward, voice turning high pitched in an uncommon plea. "You can't."

"Trust me," he remarked, turning away from that damnably beautiful face. Even as a pirate, he couldn't completely squelch the gentlemanly urges that had been ingrained in him since birth, and seeing a damsel in distress was urging him to chivalry in the worst way. "You're better off staying here."

Balthier thought she was done, that she would back down like she did with her uncle, with Vossler, with Basch. But her next request, trembling steel, stopped him in his tracks.

"Suppose you kidnapped me, instead?"

Balthier stopped in his tracks, surprise flickering. He had to admit, that was something new. No one had ever asked to be kidnapped before. But he supposed it wasn't truly a kidnapping if it was willing. But she continued, her words increasing in strength, her conviction radiating behind him.

"You're a sky pirate, aren't you?" She goaded, pricking at his ego. He nearly grinned, she knew him well already, to challenge him thus. However, he would not be swayed so easily. "Then steal me. Is that so much to ask?"

"What would you have that I would want?" His question was sharp, his intent obvious. He was a pirate after all. He didn't do things out of the goodwill of his heart.

She took a breath, letting it loose in her reply. "The Dynast-King's treasure. The dawn shard is but one of the riches that lie waiting in King Raithwall's tomb."

Damn it. She had him. There was nothing more tempting than an undiscovered tomb just waiting to be plundered. And the treasure of the Dynast-King, well to turn that down would be incredibly stupid on his part. A refusal would not add any bulk to his coffers. One little princess wouldn't slow him down but too much, he supposed. The battle was already won, but Balthier smiled slightly, willing to let her stew a little more in uncertainty. He whistled, low, turning back around. Her face was quietly expecting, her eyes glimmering determined, awaiting an answer with regal composure.

"King Raithwall, you say?"

She nodded, slow, then her eyes glanced over his shoulder, and Balthier was not surprised to hear the captain's voice reminding him of the serious offense he was preparing himself to commit. He nearly rolled his eyes in exasperation. Of course, he knew of the very large bounty on his head. He had earned every cent of it.

Balthier retorted, sarcastic, "How much is the price on your head these days, I wonder?"

Basch ignored him, instead focusing all attention on the princess. In just moments, all was settled, and they were all headed for the desert, and King Raithwall's tomb. Balthier couldn't help the rueful grin, shaking his head in futility. He knew this girl would just be trouble. But he couldn't help his eyes sneaking to her, their gazes locking for an instant, then she turned away, still as regal as ever.

And for a split second of doubt, easily dismissed, Balthier wondered if all the treasure in the world would be worth it in the end.


	4. IV

For the life of her, Ashe couldn't figure out what had come over her just a few hours ago. Never had she been so brazen, so daring before. Even as Amalia, the leader of the Resistance, she had listened to the advice of others, acceded to Vossler's wisdom in nearly every decision. She was but nineteen years old, a deposed princess, robbed of husband, family, kingdom, and according to rumor, her very life. What did she know of battle strategy, or of gathering intelligence? Furthermore, what did she know of anything? Raised in the palace, experiencing nothing but the delicacies of royal life, she had little experience in the reality beyond castle walls. She had been impatient in her studies, ignoring the lectures of politics and foreign policy, fully aware that her older brothers would bear the burden of rule. Instead, she had dreamed of the skies, wondering what lands lay beyond her borders, eager for adventures that she had only read in books.

Now she was on an adventure, and it wasn't romantic or heroic. It was desperate and maddening and rife with loss. No longer did she have brothers who would govern the kingdom, they were all dead and buried beneath the sand. No longer did she have a father to guide her through the first years of her rule, aiding her in advice and letting her grow into a queen worthy to be his successor. No longer did she have a husband to learn together how to make peace in the world. She was alone, and more than alone, she had nothing, not even dreams, for her dreams of the skies had been torn asunder, spattered with the blood of her family.

So why now, after all this time forced underground, allowing herself to let others affirm every decision, had she tossed off every protocol and word of reason for one request?

Steal me.

Had she gone utterly mad? Ashe couldn't help the thoughts forming in her mind like a sandstorm, slowly increasing in ferocity. She sat alone, tucked away in a corner of the Strahl, hiding her form in the shadows where none would bother her. She was still uneasy around them, such a motley crew clamoring around her cause. Well, some more than others, she snorted. If she tilted her head just so, she could see the sky pirate manning the controls, rings glistening on his fingers. She glanced down at her own hands; Rasler's ring a deep silver, sorrow ringing in her chest like a heavy bell. Rasler was dead. Rasler, a good, kind man, who had only wanted the best for his kingdom, was gone. And this man, this pirate who knew no shame and no compassion, was still alive. Not only alive, but her companion on this journey. He had stolen her away when Rasler could no longer. And for a blazing moment, Ashe's hatred for Balthier knew no bounds, seething under her skin like a disease, fever hot and poison.

As quickly as the emotion had come, her surprise had extinguished it, her thoughts running to catch up. Ashe snuck a hand to her chest, feeling her heart race beneath her ribs, skin simmering heat. Two years it had been since she had felt something, anything, but emptiness. Two years she had fought for a cause she secretly believed was fruitless, a cause that burdened her shoulders with the weight of the dead that silently accused her of her failures. In that time, her insides had been hollowed out, an empty husk of flesh and bone, sorrow and joy muted and gray. Even anger, the strongest of her emotions, was tempered by necessity, kept dull and brittle by death and duty and the broken promise of honor. Emotions had become fairy tales, her senses kept numb, her heart as barren as the sands of the desert.

But this man, this cunning rogue whose mastery with firearms was almost overshadowed by the cutting edge of his words, had somehow inflamed something inside her, had sparked feeling in dank, rotting places that feeling had abandoned long ago. Yes, it had been hatred, boiling dark and malicious in her veins, but it was more than she had experienced since her kingdom fell into ruin, her family and husband had fallen in death, and she had fallen into despair. Falling, falling, deeper into an abyss that she had no desire of escaping. At least, that is what she had believed until not too long ago.

Steal me.

Those words were not ones of despair, of numbness, of the fallen. They were words of hope, of conviction. She had given him her hope, her promises nearly lost, and he had given her his hand, his ship. He had given her the skies.

Steal me.

Ashe glanced at him again, watching him as he twirled the controls in well practiced ease, humming a tune so low that the melody was lost to her, baubles glistening in his ears. His mouth was quirked, but it wasn't the rueful smirk that he so normally wore, at least in the brief time she had known him. It was a smile, content, utterly relaxed, at peace. She was sure he was unaware of her perusal, silent as it was, but he turned to his head to where she was nestled in shadows, his gaze calculating. Ashe's breath caught, she knew he couldn't see her, but somehow he knew she was there. Expecting some sort of sarcastic retort, the kind that would tear into old wounds and let them seep pain once more, she braced herself for the blow. Only it never came. His mouth flickered again, a smile returning, eyes sparkling with mischief and freedom, and he returned to the controls, allowing her to escape into her quarters. She moved swift, shutting the door behind her, leaning against the metal. Breaths escaped her, her nerves flaring electric, her pulse fluttering in her throat. She sighed, trying to shake away this rush of adrenalin, but stopped sudden, her eyes crinkling with something that could have been happiness had it not been so foreign. The pirate had elicited yet another emotion from her, it seemed.

Steal me.

Her mouth twitched, then slid wide, and for the first time in two years, Princess Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca smiled.


	5. V

_A/N: I'm sorry it took so long to post. It was exam week (ugh). Anyway, thank you all for being patient!_

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Balthier wasn't sure what he hated more. The sand of the Ogir-Yensa, or this never ending shadow of Raithwall's tomb. Not to say that he hadn't had his fair share of both. His escapades had lead him through desert before and more than one ancient tomb. But sand always got into every square inch of a man, and always put him into a foul mood. Even worse, Raithwall's tomb was enormous, barely flickering with torches, fiends growling from every dark corner. It seemed like ever since that night in Rabanastre when he met the Princess Ashelia his luck had gone from flighty to insufferably bad.

They had stopped for the night, though truly he wasn't sure if it was night at all, since every room they entered was the same shade of dusk. He sat awake, keeping watch as the others slept. Penelo and Vaan were curled up like puppies, clinging to each other protective. One might assume that they had feelings for each other, but Balthier was an expert at reading a person's intentions, and those two were nothing but brother and sister, a bond made steel by death and war. Vossler was off to the side, brow furrowed in sleep, face strained in never easing tension. Another uptight, moralistic prig, just like Basch, though Basch had at least some fight in him, with the framed murder and all. Fran was singing in her sleep like always, and it was a song he recognized, a lullaby from her family. Balthier felt a twinge of guilt, though he snuffed it right away. He hadn't forced Fran to leave her home. That had happened long before she had caught him trying to steal her purse, a very interesting first impression, and the partnership had been born. But she still had fond memories of family, memories that haunted her while she slept. He found himself very lucky that he had no such fondness calling him back to the past.

The princess was also sleeping apart from them, huddled in a threadbare blanket, cheek sooty from the bare stone floor. He remembered Vossler trying to force her onto a downy blanket and satin pillow, some relics from her previous comfortable life, and she had reacted coldly, saying that she wasn't to be coddled like a newborn babe. Instead, once Vossler's back was turned, she had given them to Penelo, who accepted them eagerly and was now nestled with Vaan in royal comfort. It had made Balthier mouth twitch, surprised at her generous gesture. Despite her cold, regal demeanor, the princess was no lazy aristocrat who needed pampering, or even wanted it.

She was shivering, he noticed, cocking his head to the side in scrutiny. But the heat of the desert kept the floor warm, so it couldn't be from chill. It was then Balthier noticed her mouth moving, words indiscernible, tears staining her cheeks in sleep. She whimpered, curling even deeper into herself, and in that breathy gasp of hers, she whispered, "Rasler!"

A nightmare, Balthier realized, shifting slightly. He had heard of the Prince Rasler's death two years ago, but hadn't paid much heed, trying to run ahead of the Empire, trying to escape from memories best left forgotten. It hadn't even occurred to him that this woman, girl really, had been widowed at seventeen years old, an age when most teenagers were dallying with any sparing a flirtatious glance. So young, to already be a widow. And yet not so young, as the solemn set of her mouth and dark, shadowed eyes would tell. Now that he thought about it, Balthier had never seen the Princess so much as crack as smile, not even a twitch. He was prone to laughter and smirks, always easy going, always fluctuating, adapting with humor and finesse. She was solid and immovable, steel plated stone, unwilling to bend to the point of breaking.

Then again, maybe she was already broken.

She sobbed low in her chest, nightmare cresting, and without warning shot up from sleep, breaths ragged in her chest. Balthier watched her as she shuddered as if about to retch, skin slick with sweat, cheeks sparkling salt. He kept quiet, fully aware that he was not meant to see this, that what he was witnessing was the guts and grit of Ashe the girl, kept silent and smothered deep within. The Princess detested weakness; he had known that from the first glance. But the weakness she hated most was that in herself, and she only revealed such in shadows and sleep, when no one was looking. Balthier swallowed, uncomfortable, but unable to look away. It was like she was naked, utterly vulnerable, and somehow he knew that this was the real Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca.

She had yet to notice him, still heaving with tears. She lifted her left hand, the silver ring on her finger glistening in the firelight, transfixed. Her wedding ring, Balthier realized, eyes narrowing. Not only did she burden herself with guilt and grief, she wore the constant reminder of her husband's death on her hand, unable to let go, wallowing in the misery of it. Anger flared in him, gritting his teeth hard, muscles tensing. Stupid masochistic fool, he scowled, refusing to release herself from memories, clinging to suffering with idiotic stubbornness. How would she ever win her future if she never forgot her past?

"Trying to relieve my watch so soon?" Balthier asked, hot with sarcasm. She snapped toward him, eyes wide and frightened, body rigid, as if she were some desert gazelle ready to sprint from the hunter. The sudden fear struck him hard, and he nearly growled in disgust. She was a Princess, damn it, not some weak, dainty female. She should never be afraid. Especially not of him.

"While I appreciate the offer," Balthier continued, unable to contain a sneer, "I suggest that you let your overgrown knight with his overly protruding brow take the job for you. I wouldn't want you to lose out on your beauty sleep."

Her mouth tightened, eyes flashing fury, and he couldn't help a biting smile. Yes, this is what he wanted. He wanted her blazing with wrath, hot, passionate, all consuming. _Give me your anger, Princess, _he thought, declaring a silent challenge. _Hate me. Scorn me. Keep that fury. Without it, you're nothing. Without it, you're dead._

She snarled, bristling. "Well, we know how you obsess with vanity, pirate. Without your precious beauty sleep, however will you keep up your carefully managed appearance?"

Balthier bared his teeth, a vicious grin. "So you noticed?" He crooned, voice smooth as poisoned honey. "I daresay, Princess, you better concentrate on your task and not on my hot, tight body. I might get the impression you want an invitation."

"You arrogant bastard!" She spat, and Balthier had to raise an eyebrow at that. The cold and oh so regal Princess of Dalmasca had been reduced to curses? How delicious. "I wouldn't deign myself to touch you if you were the last man in all of Ivalice!"

So the gauntlet had been thrown.

Balthier smiled slow, predatory, admiring the hot flush on her cheeks, the clenching of her tiny fists, her eyes stormy hot. Yes, now this is what a princess should be, how _she_ should be.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Princess."

She huffed, laying back on the floor and turning away from him, still vibrating with intensity, rage rippling her frame. Balthier chuckled, leaning his head back against the stone wall, still grinning. Oh yes, he much preferred this fiery Princess, all heat and bared teeth, snarls and insults. And he was going to do all that he could to keep her snarling. He was a pirate, after all.


	6. VI

_A/N: I can't tell you how sorry I am for the delay. I've been so stressed out on money and family and it's been impossible to find a moment to sit down and write. To make up for this, I plan on publishing two chapters today... that's right, two. Please don't hate me!_

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No.

No, it can't be.

Vossler.

Ashe stared blankly ahead as words drifted around her, Vossler's harsh explanation and Judge Ghis' smoothly poisoned proposition muted in the background. Betrayal. It rang in her head, fading all else to blackness, a sharp blade twisting in her chest, scraping against bone and digging into the marrow where the last remnants of hope remained. Her heart still beat, but it was hollow as a drum, a futile march, marking her journey into despair. There was nothing then. Her last prayer of redemption, the loyalty of her greatest knight, who had sheltered her and guided her since her father's blood had been spilt and her kingdom decimated, it was all for naught. If Vossler no longer stood with her, then there was no one.

She was truly alone.

When Ashe heard Balthier's heated retort, brimming with rebellion and disdain, surprise flickered through her, the briefest of sparks. It was like her whole body was suspended in water, slowing her movements to a crawl, her nerves still in shock from the last and greatest blow. Her eyes slid to the right, passing Judge Ghis and landing on the sky pirate. He was near electric, vibrating with intensity, his eyes narrowed in scorn and mouth a slash of a smirk. She watched as the Judge drew his sword, a perfect arc, resting the golden blade against Balthier's throat. But instead of defeat, which Ashe fully expected, he just quirked his head slightly, gaze burning bronze hatred.

"At least your sword is to the point," He scoffed, jaw clenched in violent intent.

The moment was brief, a silence like a bell ringing in the hollows of her form, skin fluttering and bones humming deep. But in that moment, gaze still focused Balthier, a sky pirate whose words took up her cause as her knight betrayed them all, Ashe's breath caught, eyes widened.

Gods, how she wished she were like him.

Time sprang up, releasing her from its bonds, allowing her cells to resume normal pace. Her fists clenched for a moment, defiance roaring in her veins, and with teeth gritted in fierce promise, she handed the stone over, still and bright in her open palm. Judge Ghis smiled, malicious, and Ashe couldn't help the heavy breath released from her throat, haggard with restraint. There was nothing she wanted more than to rip the Archadian's heart out with her bare hands. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see Balthier turn to her, his gaze hot on her skin. She almost shivered under the intensity of his stare, his eyes now a molten topaz, having lost the darkness of rage. But Ashe kept her focus internal, making plans within plans, plotting retribution, hungry for revenge. Her mouth twitched, a thought catching her attention, the ironic humor lifting her spirits for but an instant. Any princess was guarded by her faithful knight. It was only fitting, then, that she would have a pirate at her side.

The cuffs chafed at her wrists, but Ashe marched on, head held high. Vossler was trying to talk to her, make her see reason. He had done this many times before, but now she no longer had reason to hear it.

"I believe Larsa is the key." His voice was still that balanced logic, unerring. How it grated on her nerves now. "He will listen to us. We should trust him."

She stopped abrupt, her temper snapping, acid rising in the back of her throat. "Who are you, Vossler, to talk of trust?"

Unable to keep the pretense of caring, she strode forward, blood curdling acrid beneath her skin. Ashe knew they had to escape, but it was seemingly impossible in this fortress of an airship. A distraction would prove useful. She glanced at Balthier, his gaze off at the distant, also churning with plans. He would surely know how to pick a simple lock. He could get her out of these damnable cuffs, and once she got her hands on a ready sword –

But how to distract the guards?

It wasn't until Fran had fallen onto the ground that she took notice of the Viera's plight. She walked forward, worry quickening her steps, but Balthier stepped into her path, forcing her to stop. Ashe couldn't help herself, she knew that confusion was written all over her features, but the pirate just grinned, cocking his head to the side.

"I knew that Judge Ghis would be too eager to prove the stone's power," He smirked, taking a step to stand by her side. It was automatic, they fell into place beside each other, both stepping into a defensive stance, ready make their escape. He lowered his mouth to her ear, Ashe ignoring the slight shiver running down her neck. "Fran will provide an excellent diversion, Princess. Just watch."

And Fran did prove herself, tearing the restraints apart with a feral screech. With movements almost too fast to be seen, she threw herself at the guards, rendering them unconscious in moments. She was violence incarnate, and Ashe couldn't help the envy swelling in her chest.

"What's wrong with her?" Penelo gasped from behind her.

Balthier's cuffs slithered to the ground in a metallic clank. "I always knew Fran didn't take well to being tied up. I just never knew how much. How about you?" He turned to her then, winking conspiracy, and Ashe couldn't help the slight flutter in her chest.

"I like Fran's idea," she replied, voice strong and sure despite the incredible odds against them, "Let's get out of here."

Ashe faced him, lifting her bound wrists, and with deft hands, Balthier picked the lock in just seconds, unclasping them from her wrists and tossing them to the ground. He stared into her eyes just a little too long, something flickering gold in their umber depths, and she couldn't look away, held captive by something other than chains. Then Fran groaned, and in a flash, Balthier was by his partner's side, holding her up in her fatigue. The connection broken, Ashe turned to see Vossler and Basch facing off, battle imminent. Uncertainty flared inside her, soft but still present. Could she really attack the man who had guided her all these years, protected her for so long? Without warning, her eyes shot to Balthier, and she wasn't surprised to find him looking back at her. What she found there destroyed any uncertainty, any regret she might have felt, and Ashe pulled herself up, her chin raised in determination, her posture utterly regal.

Her knight may have betrayed her, but her pirate would not.


	7. VII

All this talk of nethicite was making his head ache.

Balthier stood to the side, eyes darting about the room, taking in the expressions on all his companions faces, though his gaze lingered on a certain princess clinging to the Dawn Shard as if it were her very life. He had never trusted power, it was too easy to wield, too easy to corrupt. He should know, that taste for corruption ran through his very veins, though that piece of knowledge was so far buried that it was almost forgotten. Almost, anyway.

Balthier watched her as the Princess Ashelia spoke with conviction, her eyes lit near feverish, too bright to go unnoticed. Already, she was tempted by the stone in her hands, not just to defend her homeland, but to wreak vengeance on her enemies. It was probably a similar philosophy that had begun Vayne's obsession, as well as a certain Dr. Cid.

Damn. No matter how he ran, the past was never too far behind.

He almost sighed in relief when Vaan's innocent question of whether the princess could use the stone stopped her in her tracks. If she couldn't wield it, then it was just a piece of rock, useless.

"The Garif may know." Fran whispered, almost a premonition in her voice.

And any hope of the stone being cast away was quelled, and Balthier clenched his teeth, the strange urge to wring his partner's neck a little too strong to completely ignore. Why feed this insane journey that could only lead in destruction? He glanced at the princess, her eyes sparkling hope and something darker, and he couldn't help the prickling of foreboding. She would do it, he realized, she would destroy Archadia. But she wouldn't survive it. Right now, Princess Ashelia was fired up on revenge, embittered by the betrayal of her knight Vossler, eager to see retribution. But once it was over, and nothing was left but corpses and fire, she would remember herself, and that queenly compassion that marked her soul would know no comfort. She had already killed herself in rumor. This time, it would be truth.

Something sparked inside him, hot and brutal, and Balthier knew he had no choice. She needed to know consequence. She needed to be reminded of death. And there was only one way to do it. If she had to hate him to do so, it would be no burden on his part.

But in some small part of him, he hoped she would forgive him.

"What we need now is power," Princess Ashelia said, her words fierce, "Should we declare Dalmasca free without the means to defend our claim, the Empire would crush us. You must take me to meet with the Garif."

Fran's ruby eyes glittered, seeing things better left unseen, but she relented. "They live beyond Ozmone Plain."

And that was the leading man's cue.

"Not exactly close," Balthier interrupted, setting the stage.

The princess' eyes narrowed, near furious at the obstacle. "Compensation, is that what you want?"

"Straight to the point, aren't we? I like that." He let his eyes wander up and down her form, tinged pink with temper. He couldn't help a few lascivious thoughts, she was a stunning female after all, and that had crept into his voice. Now, it was time to pose a mostly innocent question, holding his hand out patiently. "Compensation? How about the ring?"

"This?" Her voice quivered, terrified. Her features, before hardened in conviction, had shattered instantly, grief welling in her as like tears, her hands shaking like leaves in the wind. "Isn't there something else?"

Balthier lifted an eyebrow, playing the rogue to full effect. That bloody ring had chained her more fully that any hand cuffs or manacles ever could, keeping her embedded in the past with no hope for a future. And that just wouldn't do. Not for him. And especially not for her.

"No one's forcing you," he added, his hand still waiting. He watched as the decision flickered in her gaze, full of shadows and scars. With a sigh of finality, a look of regret, she slowly slipped the silver ring from her delicate finger. She reached forward, hesitating for but a moment, and laid it into his palm, fingertips brushing ever so slightly against his skin. Unable to restrain himself, he glanced into her face, and tried to ignore the slight twinge in guilt at her crestfallen expression. It was if her husband had died all over again. Maybe he had, and to Balthier, that was the whole point.

He hadn't planned on saying anything else, but suddenly he was speaking. "I'll give it back to you, as soon as I find something more valuable."

The princess' eyes flashed, savage, but she turned, brushing him off and walking away, pride forcing her to keep her regal carriage. He watched her, confused at the pang reeling in his chest, but feeling strangely victorious, as if this were a particular fierce battle. He felt Vaan approach him, questioning.

"What do you mean something more valuable?"

Balthier looked down at his hand, the ring glistening silver, and for once in his life had no idea what to say. But it was his line, and he could never disappoint his audience.

"Hard to say." He admitted, glancing once more at the princess who had nearly faded into shadow, "I'll know when I find it."


	8. VIII

_A/N: Here's an extra long one for your enjoyment. Now that I'm back on track, I can't seem to stop writing. Hopefully, the muse will cooperate this time._

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The sun was setting, casting light in ever fading waves through the windows of the Sandsea. The sky was bleeding violet and crimson, stained with gold, the ink blue of midnight seeping slowly toward the horizon. The patrons were in full swing, carousing and laughing with mugs of ale frothy white. It was if the war never happened, a place to escape from the reality of occupation, despite the few Archadian guards roaming about in full armor, clinking as they went. It was a place to forget.

Ashe sat to herself beside the window, staring beyond the view into her own somber thoughts. Her companions had all abandoned her, after struggling to raise her spirits. But their cause was futile, and they had left her in silence. Vaan and Penelo were dancing in the center of the room with a few others, their steps timed by the fiddler working his instrument with eagerness and rugged joy. Basch had taken a seat by the entrance, ever watchful, but Fran had joined him, despite his stuttered protests and the faintest blush. And Balthier had joined a card game, cracking jokes to make the others laugh while he played them out of all their coin, flirting smoothly with the bar maids that delivered his drinks.

Ashe couldn't bring herself to care.

She sighed, her right hand rubbing the empty finger of her left, trying to twist the metal ring that had been there for so long. Her hand felt empty, lacking, and it made her itch with resentment. No, she was in no mood for company, not now. Not when her memories were bombarding her full force.

*****

She had met Rasler at twelve, knowing that one day she would marry him. She had heard stories of course, of how handsome he was, of how he was already fast becoming a just and fair ruler beside his father. He was four years her senior, already a man, while she had just lost the ribbons in her hair a summer ago. Not that she considered herself a girl, or even female at all. As a child, Ashe had been rambunctious, temperamental, always getting into trouble. She had wrestled with the stable lads, played pranks on her governesses, stolen away from her keepers to run through the Estersands like some desert creature. She hated gowns, and had insisted on wearing her older brothers' hand me downs, tying her hair back to keep it out of her eyes. She had scrapes on her knees, calluses on her hands, and could crack her knuckles better than Basch, the young knight that had just joined her private guard.

It was Basch who had told her of Prince Rasler's arrival, and she had screamed and kicked and threatened to jump off the balcony.

"I will not be sold off to some princely fop like a horse at a fair!" She screeched, kicking the knight's shin with a resounding thwack.

But Basch had grinned, his face youthful even for his twenty seven years. "Come now, Princess, it can't be all that bad."

Ashe had grumped, folding her arms against her chest and flopping onto her bed. "Yes, it will. And don't call me Princess, I've told you that a hundred million times."

"Of course, Ashelia," he replied, humoring her. He sat beside her, ignoring her shifting away from him, still in a temper. He sighed dramatically, regret staining his voice. "I guess I should've known that you would be like this."

She snapped her head to look at him, steel colored eyes narrowed. "Like what?"

Basch shrugged, fighting to keep the grin from his face, though she hadn't noticed. "I mean, any young girl would be. He's a prince after all. I shouldn't be surprised that you're scared. After all, you're a girl, not a sky pirate."

She jumped to her feet, poised to attack, bristling like a cat. "I'm not scared! I'm not some little girl! And I will be a sky pirate like I told you!"

"How can you be a sky pirate if you're too chicken to meet a prince?" Basch goaded, raising an eyebrow. Ashe fumed for a moment, near hissing, then set her chin up in determination.

"I'm not too chicken," she swore, placing her hands on her hips in defiance, "And I will meet this foppish prince and show him what a future sky pirate is like."

Basch grinned then, victorious. "I'm sure you will, Ashelia. I'm sure you will."

Her maids had dressed her in the finest clothes, all gossamer and silk, but the whole time she had kept silent, eager to prove herself brave. Once done, they had brushed her hair, clucking at the gnarls and tangles, and setting it with a simple pearl comb. They led her then to a common meeting room, fussing with her dress the whole time. At the door, Ashe had sucked in a breath, then pushed into the room.

There was a man sitting at the table, reading some piece of parchment. He was handsome for certain, with milky pale skin and light blond hair. He was fully armored, almost a knight himself, and when he turned at her entering, she could see his eyes were a pale blue, like the morning sky. He smiled, and rose to his feet, bowing slightly.

"Well met, Princess Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca. I am Prince Rasler of Nabradia." His voice was low and even, like the cadence of a drum.

"Well met," She responded, gritting her teeth to remember her manners. Despite her tantrum with Basch, she knew that her father would be very disappointed in her if she wasn't polite to the man he had chosen for her to marry. And that would hurt more than performing a curtsy or two.

She walked to the table and softly sit down, employing upon years of forced etiquette lessons to keep from slouching. Moments passed in silence, and she couldn't help a long sigh.

"Is something the matter, Princess?" Prince Rasler asked, brow furrowed in worry.

Ashe looked up, and knew that she could keep quiet no longer. "Prince Rasler," she began, employing her very best court voice, "We both know why we are here. We are betrothed to wed when I reach my seventeenth year. This would create an alliance between our two countries that Rozarria and Archadia will not be able to ignore. It is to our great political advantage."

Prince Rasler blinked once, then twice, and smiled timidly. "That is true, Princess, but -"

Ashe held up a hand, interrupting him. "Please, call me Ashelia," she said, completely unaware that she had completely transformed to a young queen in just moments, "If we are to be wed, it is better that we are at ease with each other."

He nodded then, impressed, "Alright, Ashelia. Then you must call me Rasler." He leaned backward into his chair, hands drumming on the table. "I know that this may not be the happiest arrangement for you, but as you have said, the political advantage is great and outweighs personal sentiment. Our countries can do great things together. I'm assuming you have granted your acceptance of this union?"

"Whether or not I grant my acceptance is irrelevant," she pointed out, tilting her head to the side in emphasis, "The contract is already signed. What is important is that I make you aware of certain facets of my character and my intentions. I am not a fragile, desert bloom to be coddled and set upon the shelf. If anything, I resemble a cactus, prickly and unapproachable but I survive in even the worst conditions. Despite my aspirations for a different sort of adventure, I have adapted to this situation most readily."

"However," she leaned forward then, catching his gaze in an iron grip, "Do not believe that this marriage will be one of love. It will not be. Love cannot be forced or arranged like pieces on a chess board. It cannot be played for advantage. That being said, I would like this marriage to be one of at least fondness, if not affection. I cannot fall in love with you. But at least, I would like to be friends with you."

A minute passed, the prince seemingly dumbstruck by her forthright admission. Ashe couldn't help the twitchy feeling inside her, she didn't like to be still for so long, but she was well rewarded when Rasler smiled, his features relaxed and content.

"I would most like to be friends with you, Ashelia," He replied, his voice bright with warmth, "So as friends, why don't you tell me a little about yourself?"

And they talked into the night, laughing and joking, and their friendship was born.

*****

Ashe sighed, the sun having completely set, bathing the city in thick blackness. She jumped slightly when the chair next to her scraped backwards, yanking her out of her thoughts and straight into the eyes of Balthier, glimmering amusement. She scowled, but let him sit, doing her best to ignore him.

"You've been up here quite some time, Princess," the pirate smirked, stretching out like some jungle cat, "Being maudlin, I suppose."

She looked at him, teeth clenched, "Maudlin? I'm not some dramatic female swooning in grief."

He grinned lazily, chuckling in the back of his throat. She noticed his pupils were dilated, his features sleepy. It seemed like the pirate Balthier was more than a little drunk. "Swooning? Perhaps not. Rigid is more like it. Frigid would be even better."

Her jaw dropped in shock. "Frigid?!" She exclaimed, heated. "You think I'm frigid?!"

"No," he admitted, his eyes sweeping down low then up again to her face, which had flushed at his perusal. "I think that you think you're frigid."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means," he leaned forward then, too close for her comfort, but she was next to the wall and couldn't escape. His breath was hot upon her cheek, too sweet with alcohol, and there was another scent too, something dark and spicy, his cologne she assumed. With such close proximity and those scents mingling in the air, her head felt dizzy and her mouth dry, and she hide to fight the damnable urge to lick her lips wet again. "It means that you pretend ever so well. You put up great defenses, play the cold ice queen to such effect, that even you are beginning to believe it. Not so, I say. As delectable as you are when you're frosty, you're absolutely delicious when riled."

Ashe looked at him then, which was a complete mistake, because his face was close enough to hers that she could make up the flecks of gold in the bronze of his eyes. She had the strangest feeling that he was going to kiss her, and even stranger was the feeling that she was going to let him. A moment passed, hot and silent, then he leaned back, getting out of his chair and reaching his hand to her.

"It's late and we set out tomorrow morning at dawn," he said, suddenly sounding sober. His fingers flexed, beckoning, "We need to rest."

She stared at his hand, still confused, breathing heavily in her chest. It was if she were the one that had been drunk moments before. _Oh Gods, _she thought, shock and horror and what she wouldn't admit was regret creeping in, _I was going to kiss him! Me, Princess Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca was going to kiss a sky pirate!_

"Ashe?"

Her head snapped up and she fell into his gaze once more. He smiled soft, and she nearly swooned like he had accused her of minutes before. "Let's go," he demanded quietly.

And before she could stop herself, she put her hand in his and rejoined the others, making ready for the night before they headed out on their quest.


	9. IX

Balthier stood at the ready at the edge of the Giza plains, rain cascading in a never ending drizzle that threatened to drive him mad. Vaan and Fran were nearby, the water seeming to float away from the Viera while Vaan scowled at his drenched state. Balthier guessed if one was used to an arid climate of sand and sun that any sort of condensation was an unwelcome guest.

In the distance, he watched the other three in their party battle the giant tortoise, bellowing rage and being disturbed. Basch was methodically lancing the creature, each thrust of the sword powerful, his face devoid of emotion. The former captain fought out of necessity, that was more than obvious, Balthier noted with a snort. No fun to be had in that one, just the repetitive vow to duty. The pirate couldn't help the shudder running through him. Shaking the thought away, he continued his silent perusal. Penelo was eager, her dagger quick and deadly, but her technique was clumsy, a testament to her youth and experience. She would learn though, if that determined glint in her eye was any indication. But her spirit was not that of a warrior, and as soon as she no longer had a reason to fight, she would lay down her blade with no regret.

It was then Balthier's gaze landed on the last of their party. Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca. Gods, how he hated her. Well, perhaps he truly didn't hate her. He thoroughly disliked her. She was aloof and judgmental and the royal snob he knew she would be. His eyes narrowed, watching her intently as she leapt into the fray with three Lobos, her blade twirling quicksilver in the air. She loved flaunting her absolute ease with a sword, as if it were a mere extension of her being. And that damnable stance of hers in between attacks, Balthier frowned, jaw tightening in annoyance. That sassy little hip stuck out in defiance, the electric pink skirt just adding to her infuriating self. All right, Balthier paused, her hip wasn't particularly little. The princess was no petite female like the ones that flaunted their protruding clavicles at court. Even Fran was considerably thinner, like a willow from her home deep in the Golmore jungle. No, the princess was hard with muscle, adding solid curvature to her frame.

Come to think of it, it really was a wonder that skirt managed to cover anything at all, what with the athletic voluptuousness of her hips that lead to that delectable –

Balthier jumped, startled, nearly losing his catlike poise and landing straight into the mud. Vaan shot him a questioning look, which the pirate ignored with a much feigned cough. He could feel his partner staring at him, and he turned abruptly, embarrassment sparking annoyance.

"What?" He asked, tone sharp, fighting the blush still persistent beneath his skin.

But Fran was silent, ruby eyes glimmering with an amused knowledge, and turned back to watch the battle ending. He redirected himself, rumbling beneath his breath about know-it-all Viera and watched the others coming toward them. Basch was still as stoic as ever, though his mouth twitched slightly at Penelo's childish antics as she wrung water from her pigtails. Ashe wasn't smiling, as always, but her cheeks were flushed with exertion, eyes glowing with adrenalin. She enjoyed herself, Balthier realized, his face kept still in his mask of sarcastic indifference. Unlike her other companions, who fought because it was necessary, she fought because she enjoyed it. Though it wasn't truly that simple. That excitement for battle was carefully hidden by the façade of necessity, that courtly expression that was bored and cold and utterly regal. But beneath it, there was that electric thrill, that hunger for victory, even the predatory need for violence, just brewing in her dark gaze. And Balthier was suddenly struck again with growing respect for this woman, whose control of her urges rivaled his own, whose devotion to her duty overruled any of her base desires.

She was close now, so close that he could watch droplets of rain slide down her heated skin, from her cheek, to her collarbone, disappearing in the vee of her blouse. Images flashed in his mind, of following those raindrops with his fingertips, tasting the rainwater pooling in the hollow of her shoulder, watch that royal mask shatter with a heady moan.

"Are we ready to continue?" She asked, voice clipped with command, tossing her hair until wet tendrils stuck against her cheek and the smooth column of her throat. His companions gathered themselves, setting their course south, as Balthier could only swallow, his control wavering precarious. Ashe walked behind the rest of the party, swaying those hips to and fro in that pink skirt that was no doubt the bane of his existence, and Balthier shut his eyes to hurl the image out of his mind.

"Balthier!" His eyes flew open and Ashe was there, turned to face him with hands on hips and head tossed back, glaring in annoyance.

"Are you coming?" She snapped, irritation crackling across her skin near electric and setting her mouth in a stubborn pout.

Oh Gods, what a choice of words.

He stuck with nodding, and she whirled back around, setting a brisk pace and Balthier followed in silence, hypnotized by that feminine saunter that she could never completely conceal.

Oh yes, Balthier thoroughly disliked Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca.


	10. X

_A/N: I'm trying to do my best to update regularly. But reviews would really help inspire the muse ;)_

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Disappointment clung to her skin like sweat, and Ashe was too weary to do anything but bask in it. Not that she blamed the Garif, but to have come all this way for nothing but another clue was exhausting to say the least. And Larsa's arrival had only confused her more, yet she was too exhausted to think on it. At least the Garif were more than willing to accommodate them for the night. Not only accommodations, but separate ones. A small smile graced her cheeks, fleeting, shedding weight in stones around her feet. To have a bed, undisturbed by Penelo's restlessness or Fran's heavy breathing, which she was loathe to call snoring because in truth it was as if the Viera was singing in her sleep. She could lay out in any manner of dress and sleep soundly for a whole night, no worrying about who would take watch. It had been a very long time since Ashe had enjoyed such comforts, and she was going to savor each moment.

She stretched, joints popping, skin rippling with aching muscles. It was then she noticed the caked on dust, the rivulets of sweat, the mud splatters on her thighs. A bath was definitely in order. She stood, a groan slipping from her mouth in a rare showing of fatigue. Her feet led her through the village, the bright colors bleeding into the dusky landscape, jewel tones accented by the tawny hue of the desert. Quickly, she entered her hut, a sturdy structure of wood and bone, a woven tapestry guarding her privacy. Rummaging through her pack, she tossed aside the course soap she usually used, and found two crystal bottles, soap and shampoo, some of the few relics of her former royal life. The bottles were ornate glass, the liquid a thick amber that sparkled like harnessed sunlight. Ashe couldn't help herself and breathed in the scent, a spicy jasmine sweetened with moon flower. The aroma of royalty. With a rueful smile, she ducked out of her hut and toward the river.

She was so caught up in her internal musings, struck by the rugged beauty of the Jahara landscape, that Ashe almost didn't catch the strains of a melody filtering through the silence of sunset. She stopped, poised at attention, concentrating on the faint humming in the distance. Curiosity sneaked under her skin and propelled her forward, trekking silent between the boulders on the shoreline. The music grew louder, someone was humming a low tune foreign to her. The voice was masculine, a baritone, smooth and deep and strangely intoxicating, like good whiskey. She ducked behind a boulder, the source of the song just beyond the stone. Silently cursing her curious nature, Ashe steeled herself and looked.

With what seemed like the greatest feat of strength, she held back the gasp that threatened to blow her cover. Knee deep in the stream, humming to himself, was the insufferable sky pirate himself. Common sense told her to march off, that a princess would not lower herself to gawk at a rogue. But Ashe gave into the feminine urge to stare and memorize the utterly masculine details of said pirate. Balthier must have just finished bathing, because his hair was soaked and curling against his forehead, his pants rolled to his knees as he stood in the current. He had put his shirt back on, but the white silk was plastered to his skin still wet from a bath, clinging to his entire torso. Ashe could count each line of his abdomen, note the strong curve of his shoulders, watch the muscles rippling in the long line of his back. But what really struck her mute was that he had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows, his forearms completely exposed.

Ashe supposed she shouldn't have been so shocked. The arms of a man had never given her pause before. But this was Balthier, who made sure each button on his sleeve was in place, each buckle on his vest securely fastened, even his hair was just disheveled enough to complete his roguish appearance. To see him so natural, without artifice or preparation, made her feel strangely lightheaded. His arms here muscled, no doubt from hefting that heavy gun of his, and remarkably tan, considering how rarely he removed his shirt. She always ended up with terrible tan lines, and here this aggravating pirate was flaunting his completely unblemished skin, cinnamon dusted amber. Her perusal continued, admiring how his hands ran water over his face, flushing as he groaned in contentment. He shook his head, droplets flinging in every direction, then threw his head back, hair lightly smacking the nape of his neck. And this was when Ashe noticed something that she had missed before.

His shirt was unbuttoned.

The movement had caused the shirt to shift, revealing a swathe of the cinnamon skin that was stretched taut over the muscles she had previously observed. Every inch of him was dusted in copper and hard as marble, reminding Ashe of those statues that had stood mute and beautiful in the courtyard of her palace, completely bathed in sunlight. No tan lines, she wondered, eyes following her thoughts, could that perfect tan reach that far, her gaze tracing his slim hips to –

She whirled herself around, back flattened against stone, breaths heavy in her chest as softly as she could manage. Her pulse raced frantic in her throat, skin hot and ten times to tight. _Oh Gods, I was ogling Balthier_, Ashe thought, nearly keening in embarrassment. Shame mingled with a heat that she refused to name, shaking with the emotions running rampant through her, her body trying to cope with things it hadn't felt in so long. She swallowed, wrenching in that self control she had honed over the years, which allowed her the luxury to hear Balthier readying himself to leave. Without thought, she bolted, years of running in the desert aiding her silence, then turned, walking purposefully down the path as if she hadn't been there moments before, ogling a half naked pirate.

Just a few steps later, Balthier appeared in her view, shirt buttoned and sleeves to his wrists, in the process of buckling his vest. He paused, startled at seeing her, then continued his usual swagger, smirk firmly in place.

"Out for a bath, Princess?" he asked, voice husky, drawing out each syllable of her title in an indecent decadence she had never noticed before.

"Yes, if you must know," Ashe scoffed, injecting her words with as much scorn as possible to cover up the shiver running down her spine. "Not that it's any of your business, pirate."

His grin just grew wider, even more sinful. "I would never dream of imposing myself, Princess. You may bathe in utter assurance that your privacy is sacred."

And with that, before the blush could creep up her cheeks, Ashe fled down the bank, fuming. How she hated that insufferable sky pirate!


	11. XI

_A/N:I just wanted to thank everyone who reviewed, you know who you are. I really can't express my appreciation. Though I write for me, I also write for you, so thanks again ^_^ I have a slew of new chapters to post so check often!  
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Such a silly little princess to assume he had spoken the truth. Balthier grinned, a slash of ivory in the shadows. _What kind of pirate does she think I am?_

He had made every impression of returning to camp, whistling merrily down the banks of the river, then had ducked behind a boulder shrouded by brush. The sun was nearly set, the sky fading into that deep midnight sapphire, stars glistening in dusted shards. With wicked intent, he slid from stone to stone, mischief crackling beneath his skin in restless anticipation. He could hear the rustle of armor slithering to the ground, then the gentle whisper of clothes. His breath caught in his throat, his smirk turning hungry, and with quiet carefulness, he peered around the stone.

The moon had slipped upwards, unthreatened by man made light, stretching its fullest across the ink blue sky. Silvery light swept downward in silky sheets and the princess was illuminated, the ebony water licking her shoulders. Balthier was mesmerized, struck soft by that milk pale skin glittering moon dust, her silver blonde hair soaked with diamond droplets that cast small ripples on the dark surface. Her arms were raised, taut with muscle that tapered to delicate wrists and aristocratic fingers, massaging shampoo into ivory foam. After a few minutes, she ducked underwater, the bubbles drifting away on the current, and with a gasp she raised her head, turning back to the shore so the pirate could catch a glimpse of her face. He almost couldn't recognize her without the worry lines, the solemn set of her mouth, the dark memories always flashing in her gaze. But now she was smiling, soft with contentment, her features smooth and glowing youthful. She was nineteen again transformed in moonlight, while the harsh light of day added years of burden and toil.

She reached toward the shore, small hands grasping a glass bottle that seemed like captured sunlight, pouring liquid amber onto her palm. Placing the bottle in the sand, she swam further into the midnight waters, deep in the current. With a rare show of decadence, Ashe began lathering her skin with the soap, tracing the gentle curve of her neck, dropping her head back with a moan as she worked a particularly sore muscle. Balthier clenched his jaw, shifting in discomfort caused by her display, as unknowingly seductive as it was.

With slow precision, the princess continued her bath, working the lather into her shoulders, her arms, across her collarbone, her skin shining iridescent with water and soap. The scent drifted to his hiding place on the gentle night breeze, and he nearly groaned at the spicy sweet aroma, his mouth watering at the delicious flavor. It was heady, exotic, jasmine he believed, with some sweeter undertones, like vanilla but something darker. Balthier knew that, without a doubt, whenever he caught a hint of jasmine, he would forever associate that scent with the ivory skinned princess with a quicksilver tongue and a fiery temper.

She moved to the middle of the river, her face turned toward the opposite shore, and with an intake of breath, she lifted herself onto a rock hidden beneath the surface, setting herself atop it. Balthier leaned forward, taking in the sight greedily, stealing the images and hoarding them into memory. Ashe's back was completely exposed; rivulets of water sliding pearlescent down her spine. The current lapped at the generous curve of her hips that he had previously admired, tapering to a succulent waist that revealed her innate femininity. She continued lathering the soap into her skin, hand curving around to the taut muscles of her back. Almost as if she knew he was watching, she teased him by keeping her back to him as she washed her stomach, her breasts, all hidden from his view. The pirate growled in frustration, heat boiling beneath his skin, control a quickly fraying thread.

Ashe finished her torso, and with delicate precision, slowly lifted up her left leg, uncurling it until her knee nearly touched her nose. Balthier's fingers bit into the stone, muscles tense with need, his breaths heavy against the cool granite. Of course she would have inhuman flexibility, he mused, all the more to torture him with. Her feet were small, dainty, leading to graceful ankles, lean muscular calves, and Balthier could just catch a glimpse of the sweet curve of her thigh. She lathered it up, bubbles trailing down, and in a glint of silver, the princess revealed a small razor blade, stroking away the lather to reveal smooth, pale skin. Once finished, she repeated the procedure on the right leg, the pirate biting his fist to keep from groaning aloud. She was leisurely, blissfully killing him but Gods, what a way to go.

With a deep intake of breath, Ashe dove into the water, completely disappearing beneath the black surface. Seconds passed, breathless, and then she threw her head from the water in a sharp gasp for air, droplets caught in the moonlight like pearls. She began to swim then paused abrupt, staring at the shore, nose wrinkling in contemplation, mouth set in a huffy pout. Balthier had never seen anything so adorable, and yet it did nothing to quell the heat raging through his blood. If anything, his skin grew impossibly tight in response. The princess was utterly still, like some mythic creature, when suddenly her smile widened at some hidden thought, and without warning she began to laugh. It was silvery velvet, trailing down his spine in unbearable softness, shivers running across his skin. Her head was thrown back, features glowing in joy, and Balthier couldn't take anymore. He twisted back around, oxygen heavy in his chest. Her laughter still swept over his flesh like fingertips, and it was painfully exquisite, his hands shaking with restraint. His entire body throbbed in need, hard and hot, and Balthier shuddered with the sensations coursing through him. His control, hard won and iron clad, was nearly gone, and with a trembling breath, he disappeared into the shadows, not so far gone that his stealth was affected.

Once far enough away, he righted himself, leaning against a tree bathed in darkness. With every gasp, his control returned, though the heat would not abate. Balthier chuckled, looking down at the source of his discomfort, and smiled ruefully.

"You should know better," he scolded, amusement sparkling in his eyes, "She's a bloody princess and she loathes your very existence."

With that sobering thought, he walked the rest of the way to camp, the communal fire still burning strong. Fran was still there, staring into the embers, and he settled beside her, sighing low in his throat. The crackling of the fire was the only sound for minutes, both consumed in private musings, when Balthier felt the Viera's eyes shift to him, boring into him suspicious.

"You have been up to something," Fran said, voice sure with knowledge.

Balthier shrugged. "I have no idea what you are talking to about."

Of course this did not deter his partner, who had an uncanny way knowing everything. "You went for a bath over an hour past. Yet you are completely dry. You could not have been bathing this entire time, yet something kept you at the river."

"Fran," Balthier began, trying to be as charming as possible, "we're partners. It wounds me that you have so little faith in me. What have I done to earn such suspicion?"

The Viera snorted, unconvinced. "What haven't you done?"

Laughter welled up and spilled over, Balthier couldn't seem to contain it. Catching his breath, an ivory figure emerged from the shadows, and he turned to see the princess entering the village, skin still slick with river water. She paused for a second, surprise lighting her face, but quickly suppressed it beneath her regal mask, marching forward in determination as if this were battle. Mischief tempted him again, and Balthier couldn't help himself.

"Enjoy your bath, Princess?" He asked, nearly innocent.

Her eyes narrowed into gray ice, steps stopping abruptly as she glared at him with cold disdain. "Must I reiterate to you how that is completely none of your business?"

Balthier couldn't help smirking, pleased at the sharp banter between them. "I'm merely expressing concern over my fellow comrade's well being. It's only polite."

She bristled at that, raising her chin in defiance. "Like you have any knowledge of how to behave in polite society, pirate."

"I respected your privacy, didn't I?" He lied smoothly, pretending to take offense. "I didn't impose myself by trying to catch a glimpse of your naughty bits."

Instead of the barbed retort he was fully expecting, Ashe's face flooded crimson, eyes wide with something like guilt, the rose colored blush of embarrassment slipping down her throat to kiss her collarbone. She looked very much like she had been caught wither her hand in the cookie jar, and Balthier nearly licked his lips at how delicious she looked. But the moment passed, the princess turning heel and stomping away, leaving him in a similar state like that at the river.

He sighed, regaining his control on the cool night breeze, and was nearly startled when Fran spoke.

"You lied to her."

Balthier fell into a grin, easing into his comfort zone. "Well, I am a pirate, Fran. I have to live up to my reputation of roguish behavior."

Fran tilted her head, scarlet eyes narrowed. "She isn't some bar wench you can dally with for amusement. She is a princess. And if we are successful, she shall be queen."

"Don't you think I realize this?" Balthier retorted, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "It was just a bit of fun. I know my role in this particular production."

"The leading man," Fran mused, a small smile lifting her mouth, eyes drifting beyond the campfire into some dark unknown that Balthier couldn't see. Then she turned back to him again, and he was suddenly filled with apprehension at the knowledge he could see buried in her gaze.

"So, Balthier," the Viera asked, voice spiked with velvet humor, "if you are the leading man in this story, what does that make the princess?"

Words caught in his throat, denial a welcome retreat, his soul already running fast before his body could do the same. He left her in silence, forcing his feet to take slow steps as everything inside him screamed to escape. Within the safety of his hut, away from his partner's foreboding words, calm eased back into him, Balthier scoffing at her attempt at prediction. Like telling ghost stories to children, he laughed to himself, stripping himself for sleep. He slid into bed, cool blankets against his skin, still grinning to himself at the ridiculous assumption.

And as he slept, Balthier's dreams were haunted by an ivory skinned angel bathing in moonlight, gray eyes flashing a worthy challenge.


	12. XII

Ashe couldn't sleep. And while she had cause to be filled with thoughts of alliances and nethicite, her mind kept wandering to the scene at the river. She huffed in frustration, scolding herself for her musings. She could admit that Balthier was an attractive male, and she could allow that most women would be interested. But she was a princess, and could not afford to deviate from her chosen course, reclaiming her throne and bringing peace to Dalmasca. However, when she closed her eyes, all she could see was bronzed skin glossy with water and eyes flickering topaz and sarcasm. The memory of the Sandsea that she had tried so hard to remove from her mind came rushing back full force, and some feminine part of her wished that they had kissed that night.

Damn, damn, damn!

She threw the blankets off with a huff, the night air smooth and cool on her bare skin. With curses muttered beneath her breath, Ashe threw on her clothes and brushed through the tapestry door. The communal fire was still burning high, and she drew closer to it, mesmerized by the flames reaching toward the skies. She reached into her pocket and pulled the nethicite into her palm. It was mottled gray charcoal, there were no fiery reflections on its dull surface, and she sighed heavy. The fate of her country rested on this dead stone lying listless in her hand. Just another burden she had to bear. She had so many that she had long ago forgotten what it was to be weightless. Flying had once been her fervent dream, but even roaring through the skies on an air ship, she could never release the weight from her shoulders. The memories would never fade.

*****

Five years had passed since their engagement had been announced, and Rasler had proved an indispensable friend. Ashe was only able to see him a few times a year, due to strained relations with Archadia, but when she did see him, she was always overjoyed. His companionship was steady and comforting, and she found herself confiding much to the soft spoken prince. He was down to earth, reliable, open to change but never seeking it without reason. He had a passion for history and despised gambling, and sometimes was too noble for his own good. The first time she had suggested riding down the banister, he had flushed furiously and stammered about how inappropriate it was. But she always managed to keep him laughing with her contrary ways, and Rasler inspired her ambitions, and Ashe found herself listening to politics and studying law in order to become a good queen.

It was two days before their wedding, and Ashe couldn't help but be nervous. Despite how close they were, she knew she wasn't in love with Rasler, and he wasn't in love with her. Thank the Gods they hadn't found love elsewhere, or the marriage would be miserable indeed. But she couldn't help the pervading feeling of melancholy, settling deep into her bones. While she had bloomed into quite a beauty, if the poets were to be believed, Ashe didn't feel considerably feminine. She still preferred chess to knitting, politics to gossip, swordplay to singing, and she supposed she always would. However, this did not mean she wasn't female, and immune to romantic whim. She had sometimes indulged in fantasy, where she was swept off her feet by a handsome stranger who would take her on grand adventures. But it wasn't the being handsome that made her fantasy man special. Rasler was quite attractive indeed, yet her heart had never fluttered inside her chest at the sight of him. While the man of her dreams was quite dashing, it was more than that. He was the man would challenge her, force her into fighting, call to her warrior spirit. He would ride down the banister with her. He would chase her through the sands. He would take her into the skies.

But Ashe set these girlish fancies aside long ago, though her nights were still haunted by them. It was natural for a princess to be betrothed for political gain. She considered herself fortunate that she was to marry her best friend, rather than some cold stranger.

She was seeing Rasler one last time before their wedding day, and she went into the conference room with a smile. He was already sitting there, reading a proclamation of some kind, ever so much like their first meeting, and she couldn't help a good natured snort at his expense. He looked up at the sound, smile tilted with humor.

"It's good to see you too, Ashelia," he smirked soft with affection.

She shrugged, setting herself in a chair opposite of him. "I can't help myself, Rasler. You're just too studious for your own good."

"I do like to keep myself busy," he admitted, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at her, blue eyes shimmering with concern. "Now tell me the truth. You're nervous, aren't you?"

The words were stuck in her throat for an instant, and Ashe couldn't help a rueful smile and a long sigh. "I forget how well you know me sometimes."

Rasler nodded, "That was our original agreement, to be friends. I'd like to think we've both done remarkably well in that regard. But something is troubling you, I can sense it."

She slumped slightly, her strings cut, and the melancholy wavered to the fore, rising from her bones to glisten on her skin. Her eyes wandered to the window, gazing out on the sun setting on Rabanastre. She could hear her people still loud and joyful in her streets, exchanging work for amusement, and it made her spirits well up in pride. She would do anything to keep them like this always.

"Have you ever been in love with someone?" She asked, her voice soft but strong with intent.

A pause. "No, I have not."

Ashe turned to Rasler, and could feel tears rising in the back of her throat at the deep compassion in his eyes. He always did understand her better than anyone. "Neither have I," she admitted, curling her legs underneath her. "Rasler, you're a good man. I could not hope for someone better. You're my best friend in the whole world and I'm lucky that I am to marry you."

"But?" He offered knowingly, waiting for her to ease this confession off her chest.

"But," she continued, sighing again, "I am not in love with you. And while I am happy it will be you beside me, I cannot help but feel the smallest amount of regret. I will most likely never fall in love. And though I don't consider myself a terribly romantic person, I cannot deny that I did not long for it."

Silence stretched out between them, lingering, then Rasler rose to his feet, walking to her chair. He stood her up, confusion flickering in her chest, and in a rare show of affection, he sat himself in the chair and pulled her onto his lap, setting her against him. His hands starting running through her hair, a soothing gesture, and suddenly the melancholy shattered into grief and she was crying, shaking with sobs against his chest. Rasler held her close all the while, murmuring words of comfort, until the last of her tears was wrung dry. She shuddered, overwhelmed with what had occurred, when she heard Rasler speaking.

"I told you I have not been in love with someone," he began, still brushing his fingers through her silvery blonde hair, "And it is true. However, I have been in love. In fact, I am still in love."

She sat up abruptly in shock, staring into the calm face of her fiancé and best friend. He took her hand in his, squeezing gently in reassurance. "I am a prince, Ashelia. You are a princess. Our fates are eternally intertwined with our countries. I fell in love with Nabradia a long time ago. I would do anything for her. And I know you feel the same about Dalmasca."

Ashe looked down, thoughts and emotions running rampant through her blood. It was true. She did love her country. She would do anything to defend her, fight for her, die for her. That love swelled in her chest, she felt as if she would burst, and she looked up again, caught in Rasler's burning blue eyes.

"This is your true love, Ashelia. Do not feel sorrow. You have the greatest love anyone can know. And I will be there beside you to protect Dalmasca from any who would harm her."

A moment passed, like time itself was holding its breath, then slowly, Ashe smiled, radiant with a joy she had never known. She leaned down and brushed a kiss on his cheek in thank you. And for the rest of the night, they stayed like that, best friends holding each other, promising in silence to protect the nations they loved.

*****

Ashe sighed, grief never far behind her memories, a steady poison slowly decaying her from inside out. She looked down at her hand, her heart aching at the missing ring. If Rasler were here, he would know what to do. He was always logical, always calm, immune to temper tantrums. He had been so unlike her. And yet that is why they had fit, balancing each other. They would have done wonderful things together, for both of their countries.

_I miss you, _she looked up at the sky, blanketed in stars, _I still miss you so much. You're my best friend, and I don't know what to do without you. I don't know who to trust. I don't know who to turn to._

Without warning, a pair of burnt umber eyes flashed in her mind, and she gasped, trying to block out the images. But all she could see was Balthier, standing at the river, helping her to her feet at the Sandsea, the determined set of his chin when he took her ring, and her blood burned in response, skin flickering electric, heart fluttering against her ribs. Her hand flew to her chest, feeling her pulse rushing fast beneath her palm.

_Oh Gods_, she thought, horrified, turning her gaze back to the sky. But it was silent, offering no counsel, and she couldn't help the shiver running down her spine. _No, Rasler, it cannot be. I couldn't fall in love with you, no matter how I wanted to. So why…_

She turned away from the flames then, walking toward the river, lost in her horror, thoughts assaulting her senses. _You were a good man, Rasler,_ she swore fiercely,_ A better man._ She looked up, and her breath caught in her chest. There he was, standing there, nearly transparent, swirling with mist. He looked at her, his eyes calm, without accusation.

"Rasler." She began running to him, gripped by one last thought.

_You were a better man. So why Balthier?_


	13. XIII

Balthier's conversation with Basch had left him undeniably unsettled. It wasn't the knight questioning his intentions. He was very much accustomed to distrust, he would daresay he earned it. But it was that one admission, Basch's voice darkening for a moment with warning.

"Her majesty depends on you."

It wasn't a comfortable weight to bear. Balthier wasn't much used to having anyone depend on him. Especially not a person of royal blood. And he had a feeling that Ashe would deny it vehemently if ever asked. She wasn't one to admit her weaknesses or when she needed help, and Balthier knew exactly how she felt.

Ashe. When had she become Ashe to him?

Not that he used her name. Her title had its own delicate flavor, and she would be spitting with fury if he dared the impropriety of using her real name. It wasn't that he was being polite, for she was glorious when in a temper, but by addressing her as Princess, it reinforced the truth, reminded him of distance. And for some reason, it was becoming more difficult to remember.

Like that night at the Sandsea. Oh, she had been sure he was drunk, but he had only had one tankard of ale the whole night, in order to keep his wits about him during cards, and had played it to full effect. Only a blind man would have failed to see her response to him, that catch in her breath, the flush creeping on her cheeks, her lips parted and trembling slightly. It had been a heady temptation, and he had very nearly given in, but at the last moment he remembered, and had moved from her side. She had been so shocked, her eyes glazing in regret, and it had taken a good deal of strength to not say the hell with it and kiss her breathless. If there was one thing Princess Ashelia needed, it was to be kissed.

But not by him. Never by him.

It was their last day in Ozmone Plain before they would reach Golmore jungle. His comrades were in rather high spirits, the children playing together as they set up camp. It was amusing to watch Larsa, the small, soft spoken lord of Archadia, blush profusely whenever Penelo looked at him. It was if the young lordling had never seen a girl before in his life, and Balthier had to bite his tongue to keep from teasing the poor boy about it. Larsa would get enough of that from Vaan to last three lifetimes. Basch was tending the fire, and Balthier couldn't help a wicked grin to see Fran by his side, coaxing the stalwart knight into conversation. Fran wasn't much for dalliances, but when a man caught her eye, she was very fierce in her pursuit. And the way Basch couldn't keep his eyes off the willowy Viera, well, it was only a matter of time before Fran got what she wanted. She was determined that way.

And, as always, the princess was standing off to the side, lost in contemplation, her brow furrowed in worry. Before he could think, Balthier found his steps leading to her side, and he chuckled when she nearly jumped in surprise at his appearance.

"Off in another world again, Princess?" He asked, curious.

Her eyes slid to his, wary and scathing. "What is it you want, pirate?"

"You know," he turned to her, eyebrow raised, forcing her attention to him, "I do have a name. Everyone else has the privilege of being addressed properly, Princess. Why such scorn reserved solely for me?"

Her cheeks had the faintest blush as she raised her eyes to his, some secret lurking in their smoky gray depths. But her gaze was defiant, unapologetic. She always proved a challenge, and Balthier wouldn't have it any other way.

"You are the only one with a hidden motive," she accused, straightening her posture, "No one else has demanded compensation but you. Is this not reason enough?"

"If you're some spoiled tart, perhaps."

Ashe gasped, then tensed, boiling fury beneath her skin. Her stormy eyes were flashing thunder, and her fists were clenched so tight her nails bit onto her palms.

"You dare presume-"

"I dare because no one else will," he growled, suddenly defensive. He sighed internally, cursing his foolishness. This is not exactly how he wanted this conversation to go. If only he could learn to think before he spoke himself into trouble. But the damage was done, and he was damned if he wasn't going to finish it. "You expect everyone to bow to your will, to do what you want without considering the cost. But this is the real world, Princess. Everything has a price. You would do well to remember that."

She bared her teeth, almost snarling, but a thought frayed the edges of her anger, and she became contemplative once more. She looked away for a moment, then straight into his eyes, and Balthier's chest tightened at the expression on her face. It was soft, almost vulnerable, yet knowing, as if she could see straight into the murky depths of his soul, and something inside him was screaming to run.

"That's why you did it," she whispered, her voice silk coated steel, "That's why you took my ring."

Caught in her gaze, he could only answer, "Yes."

She nodded, comprehension slowly dawning, but Ashe wasn't finished with him yet. "But why? Why do you care what happens to me? Why do you care if I remember?"

Balthier almost recoiled, acid brewing in his veins at her accusation. Other than Fran, he cared for no one, especially not for some temperamental royal who couldn't take no for an answer. She was more trouble than she was worth. The only reason he was on this crazy journey was... was...

"Balthier?"

His name, released on a hesitant breath, full of innocence and violets, was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

"I," he began, suddenly unsure, something he hadn't felt since he was Ffamran Bunansa all those years ago. He coughed, turning away from those soft gray eyes, his voice coming out harsher than he expected. "I don't care about you at all, Princess. I just care about saving my own hide, that's all."

"Really?" The question was near a whisper.

He chuckled ruefully, a rakish grin placed with precision on his face. "What do you expect, Princess? I'm a pirate, as you so delight in reminding me day in and day out. Isn't this the kind of selfish motivation you would expect of-"

And suddenly she was touching him. He felt her warm hand on his arm, those delicate fingers branding him, and while it was the most exquisite thing he'd ever felt, it was as real as chains, and he wasn't sure if he could ever break them.

"Thank you, Balthier," she said, and suddenly she unveiled a small smile, a gift freely given, something he didn't have to steal. And without a word, she walked back to camp, joining the others, his skin still burning where she touched him. He watched her, her hips swaying in rose, felt his chest constrict.

He had to escape. Fast.


	14. XIV

Ashe was familiar with heat. Raised in the desert, the sun radiant gold in the sky, the wind smooth and hot, she had never been uncomfortable in higher temperatures.

But this was a completely different kind of heat.

The Golmore jungle had no sun, but thick foliage filtering the barest of light, but that didn't stop the heat. It was thick, shimmering wet, oppressive and smothering. The party trudged along, Fran the only one unaffected, but being Viera she was rarely affected by anything, especially not the climate of her homeland. The rest of them swam through the humidity in ever weakening strokes, weapons heavy in their hands and clothes plastered to their skin.

They turned a corner along the path, and it was almost amusing when they all let loose a simultaneous groan at the sight of the three Malboros oozing their way toward them. With a determined grunt, she leapt into the fray, gritting her teeth in frustration. Basch was to her left, blocking the snapping tentacles of one Marlboro, his sword slashing at any opportunity. To her right was Penelo, backing away slowly to draw away another, reloading her crossbow with well practiced ease. Ashe faced the one in the center, parrying its attacks, letting loose a snarl as she thrust her sword into its side. It shrieked, black blood seeping from its wound, and it threw itself forward, slamming into her full force. They landed with a thud, Ashe nearly screaming at the feel of tentacles running slimy against her skin. Its eye was open, glaring rage, and with a rattling breath, it released a cloud of noxious, purple smoke. She tried to hold her breath, but the Marlboro was on her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs, and her mouth wrenched open, the poison burning its way down her throat. Her vision wavered, her body wracked with ailments, voices filtering through her mind.

"Penelo is down, Vaan get in there!"

"Her Majesty!"

"I'll take care of her. Fran-"

"I will ensure their safety. You must take her now."

Her body was floating, she swore she could smell leather and spice, a worried hand stroking her hair. Then there was movement. Then nothing.

* * *

Darkness is fluid. Her body is returning to health, but adrenalin is rushing through her, blazing in her veins. Fire burns in her gut, and her eyes snap open.

A face is in front of her, masculine, and her emotions flail. Confusion rattles her mind, her skin glowing dark red, violence boiling within her. Hot. Hungry. She sits up, snarling, the male before her she cannot recognize, but his scent is one of strength and confidence, and her base instincts swell in challenge.

The male is speaking, sound beyond her comprehension, and it infuriates her even more, snapping her jaws in aggression. She leaps to her feet, crouching low. He moves, eyes focus on her face, hand slowly reaching toward something on the ground. A weapon, she fumes inwardly, and with a fierce growl, attacks. Teeth and nails are her only weapons, striking him when she can. The male grabs her wrists, trying to hold her, but she twists, sinking low and ramming her shoulder into his gut. He falls onto his back, but recovers quickly, jumping to his feet into a defensive stance. She leaps, nails scouring his cheek, her inner beast roaring satisfaction. He throws her off, and she slides on the ground, spinning onto her feet, energy endless. Heat rages in her, igniting her blood, violent and heady, purely animal. She rushes the male again, gnashing her teeth, but with lightning quickness he ducks, flipping her onto her back and he was there, straddling her hips and hands gripping her wrists. She was defeated.

She glares at him, the male who would dare conquer her, furious at her defeat. But she acknowledges his victory, demure with averted eyes, her breath catching.

The heat changes.

His scent hits her again, a dominant male, strong and young. Worthy. She purrs in acquiescence, acceding to his domination. She moves, restless, violence still smoldering beneath her skin, her gut twisting with need. She mewls, desperate, and when she feels his hands just barely loosen, she snatches her wrists from his grasp, grabbing his hair and slamming him against her mouth. She kisses him fiercely, tongues and teeth and hungry whimpers, and within moments he responds, pulling her hard against him and attacking her mouth with his. She writhes beneath him, keening low at his taste, then his mouth moves to her throat, licking and nipping at her skin. Her nails rake his back, digging into his shoulders in a violent plea. He makes his way to her jugular, hand sneaking to her hair, yanking her head back sharp to expose her throat as his teeth bit into her flesh, hard.

She shrieks in ecstasy, pain and pleasure flaring dark bright, and with a buck of her hips and a desperate quickness, their positions are reversed. She straddles his hips, snarling hunger, bruising each other with their ferocity. She grinds against him and he gasps, eyes rolling back in his head as she nips his ear, hands clutching his shoulders. She sits up, head thrown back, riding him as he growls possessive. Her hands sneak to his hips, and her confusion intensifies, mystified by the strange contraptions covering his skin. She starts fiddling with them, trying to reach his flesh, attributing his sudden tension to mounting need. She snarls in frustration, her fingers ready to tear through fabric, when he sits up with a sudden movement, his hand pressing a cloth to her face. She tries to free herself, terror making her thrash, but as she breathes hard in panic, something salty pervades her senses. Her limbs relax, her mind slowly clearing, and with a sigh of exhaustion, she begins slipping into darkness once more. Her eyes flutter, his face lined with worry and something impossibly deep, then faded on a whisper.

"Ashe."**  
**


	15. XV

_A/N: I'm so sorry about the delay! My life has been wicked crazy, with mid terms and now my wisdom teeth are gone and all that. So I'll keep this short. Enjoy!_

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The others were already in bed. They had set up camp right beside the entrance to Eruyt village, wanting to rest before an inevitable confrontation. Balthier had chosen to take the first watch, remaining silent by the fire, as Basch coddled the Princess until she had to remind him that the attack had been hours ago and she was perfectly fine. He did not see this taking place, but rather heard it in the back of his mind, completely focused on the flames of the campfire. Balthier never considered himself one for brooding, it was so over dramatic, but after the day's events, he would allow himself the luxury of a good brood.

He had crossed the line between them. It didn't matter that she made the first move, because she had been completely out of her head at the time and once she returned to herself, she had been completely unaware. It was almost torture to watch her afterwards, the confusion slipping from her eyes until they were ebon gray, her mouth swollen from his kisses once again set in a solemn line. While they had made up camp, Balthier couldn't help sneaking glances at her, noticing how she rubbed her hips, trying to take the sore away from something she would never remember. How she would sometimes stop and raise her hand to her mouth, a thumb skimming along her bottom lip, her eyes darkening, her mind searching for an answer to whatever was missing.

It would always remain missing because Balthier would never tell her. He would never tell her about the line he had drawn the minute he'd laid eyes on her and how without hesitation he'd taken advantage of her weakened state and smashed that line to pieces. He would never tell her how good she tasted, like vanilla and spice and innocence and that it was so completely _her_ that it nearly undid him. He would never tell her about how his hands still itched to touch her, how her skin felt like fiery silk and how he almost regretted waking her up because he hadn't touched her nearly enough. He would never tell her about all the little noises she made, something that no spell or ailment could ever inspire. No, every little whimper, mewl, gasp, scream, snarl, every sound was pure Ashe.

He would never call her Ashe again.

"You seem uncharacteristically distressed tonight."

Balthier hung his head with a sigh. Of course Fran would choose now to pry into his thoughts. She was a brilliant partner, his very best friend, but she could be real nosy when she wanted to be.

"Fran, darling, as much as I enjoy these little chats of ours, tonight is not a good night," he near begged, trying to recapture his earlier focus. But he felt her sit down beside him and knew she wouldn't let up until she had everything.

"I've upset you," she said, manner of fact. He turned to her, guilt welling in his chest. Gods knew he could be an insensitive prick, even when he wasn't trying to be.

"Fran," he began, letting his guard down in slow inches, "you haven't upset me. You're the best partner a pirate could ask for."

She looked at him, ruby eyes glittering from the firelight and knowledge far beyond his own. "It is the Lady Ashe, isn't it? She is what upsets you so."

"She doesn't upset me." Balthier couldn't help spitting out the words, automatically rising to the Princess' defense, and immediately cursing his folly. Fran always knew. He swallowed, choking down the chivalrous urge into the depths where they belonged.

"Balthier," Fran coaxed, something like mercy in her gaze, "I will find out, you know this, so let us give each other courtesy as partners. Just tell me what happened."

He told her. He told her everything. The odd, crushing sensation in his chest when he'd seen her fall. Carrying her to the clearing. Her attacking him under the red blaze of berserk. Pinning her down. The way she kissed him with a fury he'd never known. Taking it too far. The smelling salts. Watching her chest rise and fall afterwards, waiting for her to regain consciousness. Everything.

There was silence afterwards, and Balthier could feel something like embarrassment well up in his throat. He'd just gone and spilled his guts like some nancy boy wanker that sobbed buckets at the sight of Moogles. Gods, he was such a ponce. Still Fframran Bunansa after all these years.

"I think it is time for me to retire." Fran stood up, shaking her silvery mane behind her.

Balthier almost gaped in shock. She wasn't going to analyze every detail, tell him about consequences and fate and whatever else? She looked down at him, scarlet eyes glimmering amusement, as if he had spoken aloud.

"You did speak aloud, pirate," she assured him, "and I believe you already know the consequences to this action. It is interesting that you mention fate. Perhaps you should stop running from it. It always has a way to catch up to you." She looked down the green path into the darkness, the path that would lead them to Eruyt village. "Always."

Fran began to walk away, aiming towards the third tent, when Balthier caught up to himself. "Fran?"

She turned, eyes narrowed in what he hoped was humor. "Yes?"

"Umm." He shook his head, summoning that swaggering confidence that was the pirate Balthier, that was _him._ "I think your aim is a little off. Your tent is over there."

She smiled then, a sharp secret. "It is you who are mistaken, Balthier. This is my tent tonight. Yours is over there with Vaan and Lord Larsa."

"But that-" Shock interrupted him, causing him to swallow air and nearly choke on it. Fran's smile widened, wicked, and she turned back to the darkness.

"Goodnight, Balthier." And without another word, she slipped into the tent.

_Why that little devil_, he thought, a grin sharpening its way across his face. He twisted toward the fire again, humor rumbling in his chest. So Basch had finally given in to Fran's wiles then. "Good," Balthier murmured, easing his hands behind his head, "The overgrown knight needed someone to remove that honorable stick from his arse."

His mind at ease, Balthier settled in for his watch, content for now. Until he heard the flap of a tent open, and tentative footsteps behind him. And suddenly his ease evaporated, memories flickering in his eyes. It was her. Of course, it would be her.

"What is it, Princess?" He threw the question over his shoulder, his voice smooth and bitter. "Shouldn't you be resting your royal self?"

"I needed to tell you something."

With a heavy sigh, he slowly turned until they were facing each other, the fire slapping heat against his back. Did she have to be so damnably beautiful? Her skin glistening pearlescent, silvery hair ruffled from troubled sleep, eyes as deep as midnight waters. She was wearing a too large cotton shirt that hung to her knees, brown breeches barely seen beneath. She would be the picture of innocence if her mouth wasn't still swollen pink from earlier passion. Balthier tightened his jaw, narrowed his eyes. This little spit of a girl would hold no power over him. He didn't care if she were a flower merchant or the Empress of Archadia. She was nothing.

"Well, isn't that precious? Tell away, Princess. I really have better things to do," he drawled, full of barbs.

She recoiled as if she'd been slapped, dark eyes widening with shock and what might have been tears, a hand coming to her chest as if to cover a wound. And suddenly, his pretense was shattered, nothing more than shards at his feet. Guilt swelled like the tide, salty and bitter, and before he knew it he was rising to his feet and in front of her. Oh Gods, they were tears, glittering like stars. She had her jaw clenched, a warrior once more, shielding her weakness from him. Always so strong, even with tears in her eyes. He couldn't even stop himself before raising a hand to her cheek, skimming her cheekbone, her lashes soft against his thumb. One escaped, and he caught it before it could fall, burning his skin like holy water to the damned. Maybe that's what it was.

"What is it you wanted to tell me?" He whispered, caught in the depths of her midnight gaze.

She seemed just as stunned as he, leaning into his hand ever so slightly, lashes trembling. "I," she began, so quiet that if they weren't standing so close he wouldn't have heard it, "I wanted to say thank you. For saving me. I know you think I'm a snob of a royal and I have no gratitude but you didn't have to do what you did and I can't tell you how much I-"

He was kissing her. It was soft was a whisper, just a brush of his mouth against hers, until she gasped, and he was tasting her again. The kiss was gentle, almost an introduction, but Balthier knew her mouth and couldn't contain his joy at being able to savor her again. Both of his hands now held her face, holding her as if she were spun from moonlight and porcelain and would shatter against him. He barely suppressed a groan when he felt her hands, timid, sneak up his chest, one slipping across his collarbone and resting at the nape of his neck to tangle with his hair. Her mouth was shy but her fingers were adamant, and the combination made his head reel. It was even better than the kiss earlier that day, even without the violent passion, because this was Ashe. She was standing right here with him, kissing him of her own free will. This was something she'd remember.

He felt when she stiffened, her mouth pulling away from his with something like regret, though her fingers still clung to his hair. She was breathing heavily, her lips parted and her eyes wide, searching him for something like an answer. He had none. With a sigh, tainted with sorrow, she leaned her forehead against his, closing her eyes, almost as if she were in prayer.

"This cannot happen," she whispered.

"I know," he replied. Because he did know. He'd always known.

"But," She paused, pulling back and trapping him in her gaze, shadowed moonlight and something more. "That doesn't mean I don't wish for it."

And this time she kissed him, and it was a battleground. There was a desperation to her passion, violent with anguish, and he did not deny her. He was just as desperate as she. He tried to memorize everything, how sweet she tasted, how soft her mouth was, how her nails bit into his shoulders when he wandered to her throat and made a mark with his teeth right below her ear. He wanted to capture everything, steal every moment, every whimper, every kiss, and hoard it for himself. This was his, and no one else's.

All too soon it ended and with reluctance, the two pulled apart. Balthier was torn, confusion tearing at him. He was no stranger to lust, but lust didn't make your chest constrict, didn't make your bones throb with loss. He had been to many parts unknown, but until now, he'd never felt lost before. But she was looking at him with those eyes that made him ache and was smiling, actually smiling, though it was soft with regret. She was looking at him with something he could not define.

"Goodnight, Balthier," she whispered, and she was gone.

He stood there, her delicate flavor still sweet on his tongue, his skin burning from where she touched him, and suddenly knew what was in that look. And with that knowledge, the pain in his chest sunk so deep into his core, his blood, into his very bones, that he wasn't sure he'd ever recover.

She looked at him as if she wanted to steal him.


	16. XVI

Three days.

Ashe had made a habit of counting, ever since that night at the entrance of Eruyt village. First, it had been a week and two days until they had brushed fingers when he'd passed her the rucksack. She had restarted her count and had managed six days. Then she had tripped in the Henne mines and he had grabbed her shoulder to steady her upright. The look that had passed between them still made her blood burn.

Now it was three days.

There were good solid reasons behind her counting. It kept her mind occupied from more disastrous lines of thinking, it reinforced the distance between them, and it reminded her of her self control. Of course, none of these reasons really mattered.

She counted because she missed him.

No, no, NO! Ashe fumed inwardly, near snarling at herself. She couldn't allow weakness. She could not falter in this journey. She was a princess, the blood of the Dynast King flowing in her veins, trying to reclaim her throne. There was no place in her story for a sky pirate.

Even if he claimed to be the leading man.

"Damn it!" She muttered, her wandering thoughts causing her to nearly trip into a snow bank. They had just entered the Paramina rift not too long ago, and already Ashe hated it. She managed to find some winter clothing in her rucksack, shielding her legs with woolen leggings and wrapping herself in a woolen cloak that had belonged to one of her brothers. But she was a child of the desert, accustomed to hot winds and plains of sand, and something deep within her rebelled at the seemingly endless expanses of snow. However, she seemed to be the only one sulking. Vaan, Penelo, and Larsa were running amuck, the first two thrilled to pieces at something so incredibly foreign while they dragged the young lordling into their mischief yet again. They were throwing snowballs and diving into drifts and catching snowflakes on their tongues, their laughter echoing through the canyons. Ashe's mouth twitched as she watched their antics. Those three had not been allowed to be children for a long time. She was almost jealous.

Since Eruyt village, it was quite apparent that Basch and Fran were loath to leave each other's side. They did not touch during the day, not once, but rather stood a hair's breadth apart, taking solace in each other's company. While the party traveled, they walked side by side, falling into step seamlessly, and at night they shared a tent far from the rest of the party. Dwelling on their nighttime activities made Ashe blush, a futile rush of heat to her frozen cheeks already pink from the slap of the icy wind. Right now, the pair forged ahead of the others, both seemingly untouched by the bitter cold swirling sharp around them.

And of course, right in front of her was the very person she was doing her best to ignore. Balthier didn't seem overly fond of the cold either, trying his damnedest to hide the slight shaking of his shoulders, the shivering of his hands. But vanity overruled common sense, as it always did with him, and he refused any sort of cloak or other winter garment. Ruined the roguish effect, she supposed. She forgot all those promises to herself as she watched him. He wasn't nearly so harsh as she first estimated him back when they met in the Garamsythe waterway, all hard angles and rough edges. His shoulders were broad, but not overly so, she could see his muscles tense and release beneath the silk of his shirt. His back tapered to a lean waist and hips, lithe like a jungle cat and twice as dangerous. And of course, those leather pants left nothing to the imagination. And Ashe had a very active imagination.

_Ashelia, I thought you had more willpower than this! _She scolded herself, growling underneath her breath. But her ire was immediately forgotten when she noticed Balthier sneeze, his hands shaking near violently, his skin ashy with frost. Concern gripped her throat, and she rushed forward, almost running into him when he suddenly stopped for another sneeze.

"Balthier, you damnable fool," she spat, but her words were laced with worry rather than her usual acid. She rounded herself in front of him, grabbing his hands before she could stop herself, rubbing them with her own to get the heat back in them. They were near frozen, she could see the beginning of blue appear at his fingertips. Even as she fretted over his hands, Ashe couldn't help the warmth spiraling inward at touching him again, relishing the feel of his roughened palms, tracing each long finger that she knew from experience were deft and wicked.

"Ashe."

She looked up, and all movement stopped. He was looking at her with those umber eyes, burning with something unfathomable, and Ashe suddenly forgot how to breathe. Then he smiled, and if she had been a lesser female, she would have fainted on the spot.

"Thank you," he said, without a trace of his usual sarcasm. Ashe could feel her blush rise to the surface again, and she hoped he wouldn't notice. Though that was rather unlikely. It was Balthier after all. He caught everything.

She swallowed. Hard. "You're welcome, Balthier." She watched his eyes darken, and let a small smile slip through. She loved watching his reaction whenever she said his name. Which is why she said it often.

Then his smile sharpened into a smirk, and the tension melted into something both of them could relax in. "I do really need those fingers. For a multitude of activities. Thank you for helping maintain their working order."

She laughed, her breath coming out in wintry wisps. "It would be a shame to have such talented appendages out of commission. Perhaps, if you withheld your vanity and used common sense, they wouldn't need to suffer thus."

"Oh, Princess, the only suffering I worry about is your own. Thank the Gods that we rectified the situation."

How could he do this so easily? It had been so long since Ashe could remember readily smiling. And laughter was practically a fairytale that she recalled fondly from her childhood. Yet he constantly was prodding her with the sharp edges of his sarcasm, forcing her into grins and guffaws and she had even giggled once or twice. Giggled! Like she was some naïve school girl. But it was in these moments that she could forget the burdens weighing on her shoulders, ease the pain constantly throbbing in her chest. Perhaps that's why he struggled so.

Once the laughter had been stolen by the wind, they remembered that they were still holding hands. With something like regret, Ashe pulled her hands away, making herself busy by rummaging through her rucksack until she found what she was searching for.

"Here," she said, pulling out a large green clock. Not even thinking, she threw it around his shoulders, clasping it at the bottom his throat. It was a heavy wool, a token from Rastler after his own expedition to Mt. Bur-Omisace to see the Gran Kiltias. "This will keep you warm. No more foolish attempts at vanity. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Balthier replied, his mouth twisted in humor, but his eyes were flickering topaz and gratitude. Without another word, they fell beside each other, walking behind the rest of their group as they continued through the snow.

They remained silent for awhile, relaxed in each other's presence. It was easy to bear the electric current flowing between them when they were side by side, as if the close proximity eased the voltage until it was a gentle but alert hum beneath skin. Perhaps this was why Fran and Basch always stood so close, Ashe mused, accidentally brushing Balthier's shoulder with her own and swallowing the gasp that threatened to break the silence. If they couldn't touch, at least they could be close. In some way.

"Princess?" Balthier interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to him.

"Yes?"

He stared straight ahead, looking at something beyond the snowy cliffs and peaks that Ashe couldn't see. "What will you ask the Gran Kiltias?"

The question gave her pause, her face falling into its usual somber mask. "I truly do not know. I need to know if I can stop this war. I need to reclaim my throne and come out of hiding, to restore Dalmasca. And if war cannot be prevented, I need to know if I can use the Dawn Shard to defeat the Empire once and for all."

She looked at him again, and a slice of pain throbbed in her chest at his stony expression. It was as if she didn't know him at all. "Ashe," Balthier murmured, so low she could barely hear him, "you will earn power, through title or stone, this I'm sure of. Will you use such power for restoration or destruction? That is for you alone to choose. But I hope you can live with the consequences of your decision. There are always consequences."

He stopped then, forcing her to face him. She was trapped in his gaze, something like a warning blazing there like stubborn embers refusing to fade. "Always."

She glanced down at his hand, a glint of silver an eternal reminder. "I will remember," she promised, sneaking her hand into his own for just a moment, squeezing gently. He smiled, shaking off the somber moment with a toss of his head.

"And with any luck, the Gran Kiltias will tell us how to make Vayne Solidor cry like the little girl he is. And if we're even luckier, we'll be there to see it."

She laughed again, a warm sound against the winter chill, and with that they continued their path up the mountain, falling into step beside each other, the electric current between them thrumming ever strong.


	17. XVII

It took Balthier approximately three minutes to thoroughly dislike Al-Cid Margrace.

The man was pompous, arrogant, a notorious rake if rumor served. An oily well fed peacock more interested in his appearance than charity or revolution and obviously enjoyed the prestige of being a part of the Resistance more than he believed in the ideals they fought for. Three minutes, and Balthier could not find a single redeemable quality in the man.

And that pretentious wanker had the audacity to kiss Ashe's hand. And no one said a word because it was a Prince's right.

Balthier had stalked behind the group all the way back to the refugee camp, fuming sullen, arms crossed and eyes narrowed and teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. He watched as Al-Cid continued to try and woo Ashe, his charm like a greasy slime oozing over her. The only thing keeping Balthier's head from exploding was the fact that Ashe seemed very much put off by the fop's aggressive advances, keeping that polite court mask firmly in place and dodging his attempts at physical contact with a grace that made it obvious she had done this before. And the thought that she had done this before didn't help his situation either.

Gods, what was wrong with him? It was one thing to desire a woman, even to like a woman, but never in his life had Balthier felt something as primitive as this, this hot feeling of possession that he had no right to feel. It was too related to common jealousy and he refused to be jealous. He was a sky pirate, not some bleeding heart romantic, and to be chained to earth by a woman's jealousy was the worst possible fate he could imagine. And yet he could barely speak a few syllables without growling contempt as he watched the pompous royal try to sneak an arm around the Princess' shoulders, only to find she had slipped out of his grasp yet again.

"You are making odd noises, Balthier." Fran came up beside him, and he could only answer in a humph. She gave a small smile at that, ruby eyes glittering. "I see. You have now encountered a Hume emotion that you have previously scorned. Who knew the great sky pirate Balthier would meet such a fate as to be jealous over a woman?"

"I am not jealous," he spat, and immediately cursed himself for losing his temper. It did well to prove the Viera's point.

Fran gave him a sweeping look with something like motherly fondness in her gaze. "Oh, Balthier, you spurn such that is your gift. You are a Hume and capable of a greatness that most have not the ability or the strength to endure. And now that you have discovered that such gifts also have burdens, you wish to deny yourself?"

"I am not Ffamran Bunansa anymore, Fran." Balthier dragged his eyes away from Ashe and Al Cid Margrace to lock eyes firmly with his partner. "I am nothing but a sky pirate. I need open skies and nothing more."

"Then you would deny that you are Hume at all," Fran countered, eyes narrowing. She looked displeased and slightly sad, and Balthier couldn't shake the feeling that he'd missed something important.

"Fran, I -" he began, but he wasn't sure what to say, and that realization made his temper flare up once more. Bugger this for a fool's game. He had destroyed Ffamran Bunansa long ago, and everything that the former name represented. He was the sky pirate Balthier. And he wasn't going to forget that again.

"Well, Fran," he drawled, something bitter still lingering in the topaz of his eyes, "As much as I love these little chats, I would rather kiss Vayne Solidor's boots than continue this blather about my 'feelings.' Even in a refugee camp, there must be something for entertainment. And with that, I bid you farewell."

Balthier stalked away, that old familiar confidence returning to his stride, even as he felt Fran's eyes watch him go, weighted like heavy stones around his neck.

It was deep into the evening when Balthier noticed the Princess return. He had found himself a card game, and though he wasn't so much a rogue as to part them from what little coin they possessed, the drinking game had done more than enough to loosen his temper and put aside the day's events. Sheila, a lithesome girl with a hearty laugh, had been refilling his ale when Balthier had seen the Princess slip into the circle of tents, her pale skin glowing warm in the firelight. It seemed as if she had finally rid herself of the royal ponce Al Cid, and Balthier couldn't help a nasty smirk at the thought of the disposed royal.

"Fill her up, Sheila, and many thanks." He gave her a lascivious look, running his eye up and down the serving girl with a lazy smile. She giggled brightly, and the ivory girl across the fire stiffened sharply.

"Well, Balthier, I do hope it'll warm you up," Sheila flirted, laying a knowing hand on the back of his neck, "And if you require warming later, just let me know."

"Will do, pet."

He gave her a wicked grin, and the serving girl sashayed away to tend to the cups of the other refugees. Balthier couldn't help a satisfied chuckle, the sky pirate in full effect, when his gaze shifted and he found himself caught by a pair of wet silver eyes. The moment held, the fire raging between them as the world dimmed into silence, and he watched as a tear formed a sparkling bead on her lash, lingering – lingering until it fell, slipping down her cheek. And then she was gone.

He didn't remember getting up, but he found himself swerving in between tents, further into the darkness as he chased an ivory flicker through the camp. He turned left sharply, forcing her into a cliff bank, and with a rush of speed he had cut off her escape and Ashe was there, pressed against the cliff side, her back turned to him.

"I demand you leave me at once, _pirate_." Her demand was coldly regal and with such polite venom that Balthier could feel the blood freeze in his veins. She hadn't called him by that title in so long he'd forgotten how she could wield it so sharply.

He took a step forward, wary. "Ashe - "

With that, she turned abruptly, and Balthier was struck by how terribly gorgeous she was, tears streaking down her cheeks and shivering in fury and her chin raised with unbreakable pride. A warrior princess, chosen by the gods. Such a creature could bring mortal men to their knees.

And Balthier was but a man.

"You have no right to say my name," she growled, her wrath doing nothing to ebb the flow of tears sparkling in her molten steel gaze. She held herself high, weeping silent, ferocious and proud and beautiful. "I am Princess Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca, heir to the Dynast King. You. Have. No. Right!"

Something snapped in his chest, tearing through bone and marrow until it reached the heart of him and everything that he was spilled forth like blood, and Balthier watched her eyes widen with quiet astonishment as he sank to his knees before her. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily, pain rippling with each gasp, but something deeper and darker and sweeter screaming acceptance amidst the destruction. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to hers, silver and shocked and shimmering wet, and it was as if he broke all over again.

"You're right," he murmured, clenching his fists, feeling the bite of a silver ring against his palm, "You're absolutely right."

She kept staring at him, looking through him as if she could see the destruction she had wreaked inside him with her tears, and Balthier couldn't remember when he'd ever imagined that he deserved her.

"I have no right to say your name." His words were soft but sharp with intent. "I have no right to kiss you, or touch you, or Gods, even look at you. I have no right to want you as I do. And I certainly don't have the right to - "

He paused then, swallowing down a word caught his throat, though he wasn't sure what it was and was afraid to know. "I don't have the right to – to _feel_ for you as I do."

Ashe was breathing fast now, her mouth pink and parted slightly, a blush creeping up her salt stained cheeks. Her hands were trembling softly and Balthier remembered Al Cid kissing those small, lethal hands and before he could stop himself he had her hand in his. She didn't flinch, just continued watching him with her gray sky eyes, still heavy with rainfall, and he knew.

"But I do," he whispered, bringing her hand to his mouth and laying a kiss like a prayer on the curve of her knuckles, overlaying the royal's earlier kiss. Then he turned her hand over and laid a matching one on her palm. "I do."

He dared to look up again, ready for her retribution, when suddenly she was in his lap, arms around his neck and her mouth pressing gently against his. He could barely respond, shock keeping the kiss soft, and then she pulled away, her eyes dusky silver and bright with desperation and longing and something else.

"Balthier," she whispered, and it was like coming home, "Please."

"Please what?" He could feel the earth shaking, the sky holding its breath, the gods themselves clamoring for an answer. An answer that would change the world.

She swallowed once, then laid a hand on his cheek, branding him her own as surely as hot iron. "You deserve so much, so much more than you can ever imagine. You are not lowly, or unworthy, or beneath me. Gods, sometimes I wonder what I did to have you look at me the way you do." She kissed one cheek, then the other, a divine blessing. "I just hope I can be worthy of you."

"Princess, you're more than -"

She silenced him with her mouth, just a brush of her lips, and he was quiet once more. "You have every right, Balthier. Every right to say my name, to kiss me, to touch me, to want me. To feel for me." Something like fear flickered across her face, and with a shuddering breath, the court mask she had worn for so long shattered completely, leaving Ashe, the girl who'd lost everything and survived, utterly bare in his arms. "So please," she pleaded, fingers digging into his shirt, tears renewed and slipping down her cheeks, "please allow me to same to you. Please let me kiss you and touch you and want you and feel -"

Balthier kissed her, his permission written in the desperation of his mouth against hers, and the world was forever changed.

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_A/N: I decided I'd leave my notes till the end, so I wouldn't delay your reading. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I know I've been very bad about updating and I'm not gonna make any promises so I won't be breaking any, but I'll do my best. I hoped you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it! _


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